


Geek & Holmes

by Kgdragoon



Series: The End of the World, As We Know It [2]
Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Aliens, Alternate Universe, Blood and Gore (minor), Dystopia, Gen, Murder, Murder Mystery, Mystery, Science Fiction, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:55:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 24,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22506640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kgdragoon/pseuds/Kgdragoon
Summary: The future has recreated the past, but along with it came a new Jack the Ripper, one even deadlier than the original.When the Doctor, Clara, and company are stranded in this unforgiving future, they must work together with one Sherlock Holmes to uncover the Ripper's deadly secrets before they become the latest victims.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, The Doctor & Clara Oswin Oswald, The Doctor (Doctor Who) & Sherlock Holmes
Series: The End of the World, As We Know It [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1619287





	1. Lamplighter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lydia moonlights as a Baker Street Irregular and twilights as an underpaid Lamplighter (which is a surprisingly dangerous gig!).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Originally posted on FFN.  
> This story was inspired by the Doctor Who books: Festival of Death, and All-Consuming Fire; as well as the original Sherlock Holmes series. As a result, it's fairly darker than your average televised episode of Doctor Who, and does contain some violence, death, blood, etc. (though I don't think there's anything too graphic)... so just be aware of that.

Day was slowly progressing towards night; the sky awash with oranges, pinks, purples, and the ever-present multitudes of blue. In the far horizon darkness was just setting in, and stars could already be seen through the wispy clouds. It was this time every day when the lamplighters set to work, going from lamppost to lamppost, lighting the candles inside. But today the lamplighters worked more swiftly than usual, sometimes even burning themselves in their haste. This trend hadn't started in a day; it had started weeks ago, when the first killings began. Jack the Ripper was back.

Lydia was dressed like a boy; she was a street urchin, just like all the other lamplighters in the area. Most places employed officials to keep the street lamps lit and looked after. Other areas had gone further and set the gas posts on timers which only occasionally had to be maintained. But not this Victorian London, no, they employed the young and penniless for the job. Lydia didn't mind much, she usually enjoyed her duties, but with all that had been happening recently, it was getting a bit too dangerous even for her and she was considering leaving. She wouldn't be the first; a good number of the other lamplighters had quit before her, and had been promptly replaced. But, even with the doubts nagging at her mind, Lydia still didn't really believe that she would actually quit, it was more one of those persistent fantasies that you entertain, but invariably discard.

Even though it had been weeks since the killings started and the police still had no clue who was behind it, Lydia kept coming back, evening after evening to light the lamps, and then every morning to put the candles out. She sometimes questioned her sanity, wondering if she actually enjoyed the job, or if she was addicted to the danger. Because every day that passed, the job seemed to get more and more dangerous. The killer was called Jack the Ripper, but he was actually a copycat, and had recently finished enacting the original Ripper's kills, so now he/she/they (for even the gender or number of murderers was indeterminate) had started making up their own script, and each new kill was twice as brutal as the last.

Lydia shivered as she thought of it, and finished lighting her very last lamp, sighing in relief. She carefully maneuvered the long pole with the already lit wick, careful not to break or burn anything, and when the last lamp was lit she put the lighting pole over one shoulder, and walked back to the shop.

Rosario Perez came from a long line of candle makers, or so he claimed, and owned the most well-known candle and lamp shop in the city. Providing light was his business, and he was better at it than just about anyone else in town. His shop provided a variety of services, from lamp repair and maintenance to selling the lamps themselves, as well as making candles, some of which were used in the town's lampposts. Because of his reputation, and his charisma, he had managed to get in the with the city officials, brokering a deal with them: he would provide candles for the city, as well as trained lamplighters, and the city would pay him generously, using his candles exclusively, helping him corner the market.

It was here, at Rosario Perez's shop, that Lydia gathered her tools, and instructions, every early morning and late evening; and it was here that she returned the tools when she was finished (the tools mostly included the long pole that she used to light the lamps, but occasionally she also had to polish the lamps or replace candles). Today as always, she dropped off the tools, collected her pay, and set off toward home. By now it was fully dark, the only light was that provided by the street lamps and the stars.

Lydia wondered if she could still be considered a street urchin, being seventeen and all, she felt a bit too old to be lumped in with children. But at the same time, she was still fairly young, and there was a saying: an urchin may leave the streets, but the streets will never leave the urchin, or something like that. Either way, Lydia felt the general meaning was oddly appropriate to her situation, and decided that she would wait until she was older to stop being a street urchin. She continued walking along the nighttime paths, the silence itself was absolute, and she was becoming increasingly uncomfortable in the ominous darkness.

As her walk continued, the night became inescapable; no thought could distract her from the darkness all around, not even thoughts of street urchins and lamplighters. She was acutely aware of her shallow breathing, the trickle of sweat down her back, the echo of her footsteps; the emptiness of it all. It was just her and the night (and possibly the killer). There should be people out, it wasn't that late, but with a murderer on the loose even the bravest of night owls were staying in.

And then she saw it, standing offensively in front of her, an unlit lamp. She cursed under her breath at the careless fool that had neglected to light it; the coward, he or she had probably overlooked it in their haste to go home. She walked over to the tall metal post, looking up at the empty glass above her. She felt that it was her duty to light it, but she didn't know how. She knew that she had some leftover flint in her pocket, but without the means to reach the candle, a flame on its own would be useless. She decided to get a better view of the situation: stepping back as far as she could and looking for a way up to the glass casing. There wasn't anything of use.

She heaved a resigned sigh and was about to leave when she heard footsteps approaching. Just a casual passerby, she told herself, a brave pedestrian, someone on business perhaps, nothing more. But no matter what she told herself, the fear wouldn't leave, it gripped her in its terrible claws and refused to let go. After all, how many people were walking around with a murderer on the loose? The only sure exception would be the murderer…

She cautiously pressed her back to the building behind her and quietly slunk along its length, making her way into the pitch black alley beside it. She knew that the fear was irrational, that in all probability the person walking wasn't the murderer, but she still couldn't help but breathe a silent sigh of relief when she heard the footsteps pass a few moments later. She leaned against the wall, letting her head fall back onto the cold bricks for a moment, closing her eyes and waiting for her heartbeat to return to normal. A drop of rain fell on her cheek, and she decided that it would be best if she hurried home.

She opened her eyes and saw the blackness above her; a cloud had strayed overhead and blocked all the stars in the sky, all the light. She sighed and pushed off against the wall. The cloud passed and dim, silver light filled the alley. Lydia looked up to the sky and thanked the heavens for their small blessing. Then another drop of rain fell on her cheek, and then another on her chin. Something strange occurred to her: the cloud had passed, leaving no source for the droplets. She craned her neck back farther, looking for the source of the moisture, and found it.

There were two people hanging upside-down above her, tied by the ankles and strung between the buildings like a decoration, their arms reaching down stiffly, like children reaching for their parents after a fright. Except that these weren't children, and they weren't afraid, they were a couple, a man and a woman, and they were most certainly dead. Lydia stared up at the gruesome sight in shock, she couldn't move, she was paralyzed with fear and dread and horror. Another droplet fell onto her neck. The fluid sluiced slowly down the dead couple's arms and dripped off their fingertips to the pavement below. In the night, it was blacker than the darkness all around, it was liquid oblivion.

Lydia screamed. She couldn't help it, or stop it, or think to do any better. Her body had finally broken free of its spell, but her mind was still in a fearful stupor, and she couldn't think at all. She backed away from the bodies and clamped her hand over her mouth. Then she realized she was covered with blood, and she scrubbed furiously at her face with her sleeves, staining them with rust.

The sound of running footsteps quickly drew nearer, and for a moment a man was silhouetted in starlight, standing at the entrance of the alley. Lydia panicked, running in the opposite direction. An inhuman growl stopped her in her tracks, it was right in front of her, she was trapped. She backed up slowly, still covering her mouth. As she spun around, something gripped her arm and she screamed again, hitting her attacker with fists and feet, all of which were useless. Then a hand clamped over her mouth, silencing her.

"Shh," the man whispered. "I don't want to hurt you, I'm trying to help."

The growl got louder, and closer; it echoed off the empty city, menacing and dreadful, carrying the promise of a sudden, violent end.

"What's that?" the man asked, looking toward the sound, fear creeping onto his face, which Lydia believed was genuine. Lydia looked up at the man, shaking her head, echoing his confusion.

"Let's get out of here," the man whispered, and Lydia nodded, both of them ran away from the source of the growling.

"Who are you?" Lydia asked, in between steps

"Peter Ness, and you?"

"Lydia"

"Nice to meet you," he said, looking over his shoulder at her, and giving his best, winning smile.  
The flickering lamplights illuminated his features with a heavenly light: his strawberry blond hair seemed to be a halo around his head, and his pale, narrow features were almost angelic.

"You really think now's the time for that?" Lydia said in her most deadpan, snarky voice.  
She was perfectly aware of how plain she was, with her mousy brown hair and simple, commonplace features. She didn't have to be reminded by a stranger whilst running for her life.

"Maybe not, but if I'm going to die, I'd like to charm a beautiful lady first," Peter replied.

"Oh shut up," Lydia said, feeling her cheeks go hot, "This way," she said, running in front of Peter and pulling him after her.

"Where are we going?" he asked.

"I know someone who can help."

"The police?"

"No, better," she said, smiling wickedly. "A bloke called Sherlock Holmes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, the production of this story was plagued. The FFN website seriously messed up the formatting in some places when I tried to post it, and I spent so much time fixing it because it just would not cooperate. What royally messed it up, though, was my computer dying (*twice*), including a reset which swallowed a few of my stories whole, seriously bummed me out, and took several chapters off this story, plus some revisions and the outline I had made.  
> Subsequently, a few chapters were written months after the bulk of the story, and the last two chapters were literally written five years after that, just so it could have *an* ending (the unfinished story haunted me). And I'm pretty sure the actual direction the story ended up taking wasn't what I had originally planned, for better or worse. I at least had some fun writing the penultimate chapters, and am cautiously optimistic that they ended up entertaining, if nothing else :)


	2. The Entertainment Trap

"Doctor, why do we have to wear fancy dress, I thought we were going to the future?" Clara asked, skeptically looking at the Victorian dresses in front of her.

"My mother **was** always saying that fashion is a cycle," Gage added, also looking dubiously at the period clothing.

"What unusual clothing…" Siv'Irai commented, staring at the foreign styles. In her culture, women and men all wore the same things: robes, or tunics and pants, all of which were rather loose, and not at all form fitting or flattering. She wasn't sure how she felt about this change.

"We **are** going to the future," the Doctor answered. "But the signal I got from Peter indicated that he was in a Niche Community, a Victorian era London one, to be precise."

"Niche Community?" Clara asked.

"Yes, or NC for short," the Doctor said, explaining. "Sometime in the future humanity gets all nostalgic for the past, in a bad way. They establish what they call 'Niche Communities', which are fanciful, often romanticized, recreations of past periods. They have strict rules, one of which is that there's no advanced technology allowed… which is kind of ironic because they employ quite sophisticated procedures to enforce this rule and keep the communities running. After all, they're usually set up in glass spaceships, complete with artificial weather (and gravity), holograms, and androids, etcetera."

"So we're going to a future recreation of Victorian London?" Gage asked, raising an eyebrow in a way that was somewhere between being amused and not being entirely convinced.

"Yep, basically," the Doctor replied, smiling happily, oblivious. "Clara, they're pretty serious about their 'no technology' rule, you can't take your blaster, or sonic"

"What happens if we run into trouble?" Clara asked, annoyed. "You know we probably will."

"We solve it the old-fashioned way," the Doctor replied, not explaining what 'the old-fashioned way' meant.

"Alright, but I'm not wearing a dress," Clara said. "There's no way to run in heels."

"That's perfectly fine, the Niche Communities define how someone is treated based on their clothing anyway. After all, it still is the future, well relatively speaking anyway. I'm getting in a bad habit of using a frame of reference for my time periods, I should stop that…" the Doctor said, her explanation quickly going off on a tangent as she continued talking.

"So if I wore a dress I'd be treated like a girl?" Gage asked, skeptical.

"These Niche Communities sound interesting," Clara said, ignoring the Doctor's rambling, "And dangerous…"

"Yup," the Doctor replied, smiling, to who she was responding wasn't clear. "Anyway, you should hurry up and pick out something to wear; we've got a Peter to save"

The girl went skipping away happily, humming to herself, and looking for something to wear. Her three companions looked at each other, and then in the direction the Doctor took, they still weren't used to her bizarre behavior, but they did as she said and looked through the racks of clothes for something appropriate.

**

Somewhere in her unusual life, Clara had learned to favor practicality over fashion, but at one time she had been a very fashionable girl, and still a hint of that sensibility remained. Her outfit, as stated, was that of a gentleman, with the shoes, waistcoat, hat, and buttoned shirt to prove it. But she had chosen an outfit fitting her own fashionable sensibilities: the dark grey coat had an accent of shiny, bright green fabric sewn onto the inside of the coat so that when viewed from the right angle it could be seen, and she had also chosen a green bowtie instead of the gentleman's usual cravat.

Siv and Gage weren't as daring as Clara, and they knew decidedly less about fashion or the Victorian Era, so they both stuck with un-substituted, mostly traditional clothing. Gage found an elegant brown suit that he thought would work, and Siv chose a purple dress.

Gage wondered if the Victorian Age had some form of spectacles, and as he thought about this, he absently pushed up his own glasses. He decided that he wasn't willing to give them up, even if the period didn't have glasses, or ones like his, with his terrible vision it just wasn't worth it. Besides, he always seemed to fit in, no matter where he went, or maybe it would be better described as blending into the background; his nondescript hazel eyes and messy brown hair were rather commonplace, and nothing about him really stood out or attracted attention.

Siv looked at herself in one of the full-length mirrors, marveling at the length and weight of the garment she was wearing. She wondered if she would fit in. She was a member of a psychic race of aliens after all, and she did have long white hair and a third eye. But she figured that as long as she wore one of the ridiculous hats natural to the time and kept her extra eye shut then there wouldn't be a problem. Keeping that eye closed would severely limit her psychic abilities though…

"Doctor! Are you ready to go?!" Clara called, wondering if she could even hear her in this incredibly large closet

"Hmm? What were you saying?" the Doctor asked, appearing just behind Clara, causing her to jump in surprise

"We were just wondering if you were ready…" Clara said, her sentence petering off as she saw the Doctor, "I thought you said Victorian?"

"Yep," the Doctor replied with an enthusiastic nod.

"That isn't even remotely…" Clara started, but again her words just dropped off.

"Eh, we're going to a future recreation of Victorian England, it's not like it's authentic or anything," the Doctor replied, waving off the criticism.

The Doctor reached into her pocket and slid another hair pin into her wavy hair, which tended to be generally unruly, she now had a total of five pins holding her bangs back, and each stood out like a sore thumb against her stark white hair.

Recently she had regenerated into a short, young looking woman, but before she had been many things in her past (including a guy); she was a two thousand year old Time Lord after all, but for all that, she was still dressed rather anachronistically. Her black shirt had a collar, cuffed sleeves, and was buttoned up to her throat, which was partly obscured by a stylish, white jabot. But this nod to traditional fashions was paired with slick black leggings and metal studded ankle boots, as well as an asymmetrical, black, gothic style skirt that was distinctly futuristic and decidedly longer than modern day trends.

"You know, I really like this look," she said, spinning on one foot. "I think I'll keep it."

**

They stepped out of the Tardis. It was a pleasant spring day in Victorian London.

"Wow," Gage said, looking at the dark labyrinth in front of him, cold and somber in a way that no part of 21st century New Mexico could ever know. "So this is what Victorian England was like."

"Will be like," the Doctor corrected.

"This is the future after all," Clara added.

"Ugh, the smell, it's vile," Siv said, covering her nose.

"They may have gone a bit overboard with the simulation," the Doctor agreed, also covering her nose, "But no worries, you'll get used to it, after a couple minutes you won't be able to smell anything at all."

"Or ever again," Gage added.

"We'll survive," Clara stated, walking off down the alley. The Doctor followed behind her, and then, with a shrug, Gage and Siv followed after them.

Outside the alley people bustled about, going on with their daily work in a very convincing fashion. In the streets below, carriages trundled past, drawn by real, living horses, and driven by darkly clad drivers.

"What is that?" Siv asked, pointing at a horse.

"That's a horse," Gage explained.

"Or a reasonable facsimile thereof," the Doctor added.

"Wha-?" Gage began, but Clara cut him off.

"They're not real," she said.

"How can you tell?" he asked.

"Look," she said, gesturing around them, "The streets are too clean. Real horses leave a mess, and no street cleaners are this good."

"Bingo!" the Doctor said, patting Clara on the head and laughing happily; no one could tell if she was praising or reprimanding her, or being just plain crazy. "Of course she's right though. They're actually robotic recreations of horses. A lot less temperamental than the real thing, and less messy too."

"But if it wasn't the horses we smelled earlier, what was it?" Gage asked

"The people," the Doctor explained. "Plus, I imagine we're close to a market."

"A market? Like a mall?" Gage asked.

"No," the Doctor said. "What you would call a 'mall' would be roughly the equivalent of a bazaar, indoors and all. No, what I'm talking about is a market: outdoors, dirty; you know, the works."

"Oh," Gage replied, filing away the information for future reference.

"I wonder, what's going on over there?" Siv mused, looking off to the side at a point further down the street.

The Doctor, Clara, and Gage all turned toward the direction Siv was looking at; there was a crowd gathered so thickly that no casual observer could see what the commotion was about.

"Can't you read their minds?" the Doctor asked.

Siv shook her head, no, "There are too many of them, I can't single out a single person. I just sense general curiosity and... fear… or horror. But that doesn't seem right."

"We'll work on that," the Doctor said, making a mental note to give Siv a crash course in telepathy. "Why don't we check out what's going on? I'd bet it's something interesting," and she walked off toward the crowd, leaving her companions to follow.

She made her way through the people, no one even gave her a moment's notice. And there, in the center of the crowd, was the cause: police officers bustled about, barring anyone's entrance into the alley behind them, but the onlookers could still see the gruesome picture painted inside the dark passage.

"What's happened?" Clara asked, coming up behind the Doctor.

"Murder, murder most foul," the Doctor replied.

"Oh, God," Gage said as the scene came into his view, he stood behind the two girls in front of him, and covered his mouth, looking away from the gore.

"Who could do something like this?" Siv asked, looking a bit faint.

"You mean, you don't know?" a bystander replied, having heard her question.

Siv shook her head, and the man continued. "'Twas the Ripper, he's struck again."

"The Ripper, as in Jack the Ripper?" Gage said, equally amazed and horrified.

"Is there any other one?" the man said.

"Well, the one that happened in the past," Gage replied.

"Naw, this one'll put that to shame. He's already gone beyond the original, and there isn't any sign of him stopping."

"Why don't the authorities get involved?" the Doctor asked, then, realizing her question, amended. "I mean, the real authorities, back in the outside world, with all their technology. I know this is a Niche community, but considering the circumstances I think they could intervene. They could even shut this whole thing down."

"You mean you don't know?" the man asked, when the Doctor shook her head, he continued. "If you ever get out of here, you should have some harsh words with your travel agent. They've sent you to EC-146; the rules here are far different."

"You don't mean we're in…" the Doctor began.

"Right, you get it now," the man said, then, taking one last look at the crime scene, he turned around and started pushing his way through the people. "Well, best of luck to 'ya," he said in farewell, tipping his hat at them and then vanishing into the crowd.

"What did he mean?" Gage asked.

"Doctor, what's going on?" Clara asked.

"It means that we're in trouble," the Doctor said with a sigh. "You see, usually these Niche Communities are a short vacation from the real world. People elect to go to them, role-play, follow their rules, and get any violence or crime out of their system, since the period's detective work and technology is rather crude. The people in early utopias weren't entirely enlightened and needed an outlet for their violent impulses, and this was it. Afterwards the visitors would just leave. But not this one, this is one of the Entertainment Communities. They're a subset of the Niche Communities; people enter, or more often are forced, into one and they can't leave until they pay their way out through audience favor."

"Audience favor?" Siv asked.

"Yes, there are cameras everywhere, being edited and fed to the outside world via intelligent computer programs. Then, the viewing audience can award points to the participants in the Entertainment Communities; each audience member is given one point daily to spend, and each participant usually needs about five hundred points to leave."

"Five hundred points?!" Gage said. "How do they ever get out?"

"Often, they don't," the Doctor said.

"Doctor," Clara began, a note of urgency in her voice. "You said that there are cameras everywhere, and they don't allow technology to enter or people to leave."

"Yes…?"

"What about the Tardis!" Clara turned on her heel and pushed her way frantically through the crowd.

"Clara, you are a genius!" the Doctor exclaimed, following close behind.

Horror went through Gage and Siv as they came to the same realization, and thought about its implications. They pushed through the crowd and ran full tilt towards the Tardis.

Clara stood in the alleyway, looking in frustration at the displaced dirt that told of the ship's recent presence. It was gone, the Tardis was gone.

"But how?" Siv asked, "We were just here!"

"They probably took it right after we left the alley," Clara said.

"What will they do with it?" Gage asked.

"Hold it, until we've bought our freedom," the Doctor explained, looking dejectedly down at the square shaped impression in the dirt.

"But they have to know that this is a mistake!" Gage said. "We didn't know about their rules!"

"No, but they don't care about that," the Doctor said. "What matters to them is that we're in their territory now, and so we have to follow their rules."

"What do we do?" Clara asked.

"We could find a way to earn enough points to get the Tardis back," Siv suggested.

"And just how do we do that?" Clara asked. "We don't have weapons, or money, or even our sonics!"

The Doctor smiled, a look of sly determination sliding into place. It was the kind of expression that slowly creeps onto someone's face and makes others think twice about messing with that person; the unnerving smile of the truly insane.

"We catch Jack the Ripper" the Doctor said.


	3. Ripper in the Night

Peter and Lydia walked through the evening streets; it had been hours since Peter had come face to face with Sherlock Holmes, and agreed to help him. And now they were on the job again. Lydia had been working for Mr. Holmes all along, she was one of his Baker Street Irregulars, and her job as a lamplighter just gave her access to the streets and the information they held; it was a means to an end, and it made her invaluable.

Not all the people in a Niche held jobs, and not all the jobs in a Niche were held by people, in fact, most of the workforce consisted of convincing androids run by artificial intelligence programs, and in other, friendlier Niches, people often only held jobs fleetingly, and for their own amusement. But in this Niche, where entertainment was law, most of its living citizens held some kind of occupation: it was another way to earn Niche Community credits, and gave them necessary currency to spend in the Niche.

But no, EC-146 was not one of the nicer Niches to spend ones time in, and most of its citizens were here involuntarily; mostly they were human, but occasionally Peter saw an alien unlucky enough to be caught in the Niche trap. Some of the aliens were indistinguishable from humans, but somehow Lydia could tell the difference and she sometimes pointed one out to Peter; more often, however, the aliens looked completely foreign and were easy to spot in a crowd (brightly colored skin, spikes, tails, wings, and other appendages tended to stick out).

"What about that guy?" Peter asked, pointing to a burly looking fellow with an unearthly beard.

"Nope, he's human," Lydia replied.

"Human, really?" Peter said, "I've never seen a man that large or a beard that long, or that… red."

"Yeah, isn't it funny, a long time ago it was a popular belief that redheads would die out, now look at 'em, they're practically the most popular hair color… well, next to pink, for some reason."

"Pink, you mean that girl's hair was natural?" Peter asked, thinking he must surely be wrong.

"Yeah, why not?" Lydia replied. "What? You look surprised."

"Well, it's just… pink isn't a natural hair color, is it? Well at least, it wasn't, back where I'm from."

"Don't you mean, 'when' you're from?"

"Oh right, Mr. Holmes deduced I was a time-traveler, didn't he? I forgot."

"Yeah, he's the sharpest man in the galaxy. It's hard to get anything by him."

A moment of awkward silence passed between them, and Peter wasn't really sure what he had done wrong, or what had caused it. After more awkwardness, he decided to fill the hole.

"So, is pink really a natural hair color now?" Peter asked. "How did that happen?"

"Genetic engineering," Lydia answered. "All hair colors are natural now, eye colors too. And if you don't like yours, you can change it, permanently and no problem, and then it'll be natural too."

"I think we have a very different idea of 'natural'," Peter commented.

"Yeah, you're from the 20th…" Lydia began.

"21st" Peter supplied.

"Right, 21st century. I'd expect our ideas to be different" Lydia said. "Now, I know you're an old-timer and all, but do you mind helping me out?"

"Oh right, I forgot. What was it we were supposed to be doing?" Peter asked.

"Ugh, you're hopeless," Lydia said, but answered him anyway. "I'm gonna be walking around, lighting lamps, you're gonna go to the rooftops and keep watch. We'll both be on the lookout for anything suspicious, and if you see anything call out. Don't worry, the rooftops are usually close enough for you to jump from on to the other, especially in downtown London. And some of the other Irregulars already set up ladders on some of the buildings along my route so you can get up and down."

"Okay, but…"

"Well, go on then," Lydia interrupted. "We haven't got all night"

"How does Mr. Holmes know that the Ripper will strike again tonight, didn't he just kill two people last night?" Peter asked, blurting out his question.

"Yeah, but Mr. Holmes figures that he's gonna be impatient to kill again. And he'll do so the very first chance he gets," Lydia said. "So let's go, we don't want this guy, or woman, or whatever, to get ahead of us."

"I can see how the Ripper getting the drop on us would be a bad thing" Peter said, and moved to the nearest building with a ladder, cautiously climbing up the thin wooden frame until he was crouched on the roof with a clear view of Lydia and the surrounding area. He could just make out a couple walking along the sidewalk further down the street.

Peter watched as Lydia lit the lamps, going from one to the next, carefully illuminating the glass containers and filling the area around them with light. Peter would move from one rooftop to the next so he could follow Lydia's progress and not leave her without an extra set of eyes. Everything was going smoothly, no sign of the Ripper, and both of them were beginning to think that Holmes was wrong, that the Ripper wouldn't strike again this night, or that if he did, it wouldn't be close enough for them to witness.

Lydia lit another lamp.

"What 'cha doin'?" a chipper voice asked from just behind him, so close that he nearly jumped out of his skin, and off the roof.

"Uh? Who are you?!" Peter asked, turning around, he came face to face with a young, white-haired girl.

"I asked you first," she said, stubbornly.

"We're trying to find Jack the Ripper," Peter said, motioning towards Lydia on the street below. "I'm Peter Ness and that's Lydia. And you are?"

"I'm the Doctor," she said, her cheerfulness apparently not faltering even in the face of Peter's annoyance and suspicion, "And we're looking for the Ripper too."

"We?" Peter asked.

"Yep, me and a few friends," she said. "… You're Peter Ness…?"

"Yes, I just said that," Peter replied, confused, thinking she may be a bit slow; she did call herself a doctor, and he did find that hard to believe.

"No, no, no. Not just Peter Ness, **the** Peter Ness," she replied, clapping her hands and bouncing up and down in her spot. "Found you!"

"Found me?" Peter asked. "What do you mean?"

"I'm with Gage," she answered, "We came here to find you and take you back home"

"Gage? Home?" Peter responded. "How?"

"Long story, but first we have to catch the Ripper so we can get out of this place," she replied. "Oh… uh-oh, I think your friend may be in danger," she pointed past Peter's shoulder to the street below.

A man was dragging Lydia away into an alleyway, covering her mouth so she couldn't scream, though she appeared to be struggling to get free, his strength was too much for her to escape.

"LYDIA!" Peter yelled, his voice carried across London, the man abducting Lydia stopped for a moment, surprised, he looked up to where Peter was standing on the rooftop. In the nighttime gloom, he was nothing more than a featureless figure.

There was the sound of a growl again, tearing through the night. But in this empty business district, no one was around to hear it, except for the group facing Jack the Ripper. The sound was so close, the Doctor turned, her hearts pounding in her chest, a drop of sweat dripped across her temple.

There was someone standing at the far end of the roof, having climbed up the same ladder, the only ladder, and this being a corner building; there was nowhere else to go. The nearest buildings were either blocked by the man, or too far away to jump, they were trapped.

The Ripper walked closer, pulling his arm back, the motion causing the chainsaw in his hand to growl even louder. He was wearing a top hat, cloak, and gloves, everything else was masked by shadow.

"Peter," the Doctor said, patting his arm to get his attention, he didn't even turn around, his attention fixed on Lydia, the Doctor pulled at his sleeve. "Peter!"

"What?!" Peter snapped, turning around, he froze as he saw the man slowly walking towards them. No need to rush, after all, they weren't going anywhere. "What…?" Peter repeated, at a loss.

"We have to jump," the Doctor said, her voice eerily calm in the deadly circumstances.

"We're four stories up! We'll die!" Peter exclaimed.

"If we don't then we're dead anyway," she replied with a shrug, then smiled devilishly. "Just make sure to aim for the trees!" and she grabbed his hand and jumped off the roof, pulling Peter along with her.

**

Clara ran through London, chasing after the Ripper, who had an unconscious girl thrown over his shoulder, but was still managing to run incredibly fast. She hoped that Siv and Gage were keeping up, because she wasn't sure that she could take this man down alone, he seemed to have unnatural abilities. It took all of Clara's speed to just keep up with him; she couldn't even spare a backward glance to see if her companions were still there, and it was impossible to know where the Doctor was.

She ran into an alley, the Ripper just in front of her, and she stopped cold. It was empty, except for one unconscious girl slumped against the alley wall. Had the Ripper just dumped her there, after all he went through to keep her? Something wasn't right. Clara's instincts screamed 'trap!', she unconsciously reached for her sidearm, but of course it wasn't there.

Instead, she decided to search the area, make sure the Ripper was truly gone, and then get the girl. It was risky, it could be the Ripper's scheme all along: have Clara leave the area, and thus the girl, then collect the girl when Clara wasn't around. Clara wasn't even sure if the girl was still alive, he could have killed her long ago, but it was the only thing Clara could do, after all, she wanted to catch the Ripper, and she couldn't very well just leave the girl like this.

She slowly backed away from the alley, keeping her eyes on the dark, light-less path, searching for signs of movement, of danger. Then there was a heavy *Thump* and a cracking pain. Something hit me on the head, she thought, in a daze. She put her hand to the back of her head and it came away sticky and red, she looked at it in confusion, vaguely wondering what it was. Her legs wobbled, and then she fell to the ground, unconscious.

**

"Where could they be?" Siv asked, looking around.

"We lost them," Gage commented, also looking around, "It must have happened when we crossed that street earlier," he kicked at a stray pebble in the street, frustrated.

"Can't you sense anything?" he asked.

Siv shook her head, "No, there was something… off about him."

"Off?" Gage asked.

"Yes, like he was shrouded in fog. His thoughts were elusive, like they weren't fully formed, or were somehow masked, and I could barely sense his presence," Siv replied, "He was more like a phantom than any person I've ever met."

"And Clara?" Gage asked.

"She was moving around too quickly to get a lock on, but I know we headed in the same general direction. Now though, I can't sense her at all."

"I wonder what happened," Gage said, kicking over another, larger stone.

"Perhaps we should return to the Doctor," Siv suggested.

"Yeah, if anyone can make sense of this, I think it's her," Gage replied, he paused, behind him he heard a faint whispering. "It looks like we're not alone," he said.

Siv turned around also, looking for the third party Gage had mentioned.

The whispering grew more intense; the sound coming closer; the indistinct voices angry and threatening in the dark night.

"Where are they coming from?" Gage asked, anxiously turning from side to side.

"Where is what coming from?" Siv asked.

"The whispering," Gage replied, seeing the look on her face. "Don't tell me you can't hear that!?"

"No," Siv replied, shaking her head, confused. "Gage, are you alright?" she asked. When she turned her telepathy on him, she sensed a growing panic and dread, it was like a giant hand was clutching his heart, but she still didn't know what was causing it.

"Gage… Gage!" Siv yelled as Gage fell to the ground, and lay unmoving. She covered her ears, looking around for whatever was responsible for this, but there was nothing there, only shadows.

She knew something had to be causing this, but there were no signs to indicate what it was or what it was after. Siv didn't even know if Gage was still alive, but she didn't dare uncover her ears, fearing that whatever had done that to him would go after her next. All she knew was that Gage had heard whispering before passing out, so she figured that part of the creature's power was in sound.

And then she heard the whispering too. Even with her ears covered, the sound still came through, like it was bypassing her ears altogether and going straight into her brain. Her heart pounded in her chest, beating so wildly it felt like a flailing lava bug (a creature native to her home planet that was a notoriously bad swimmer and could occasionally be found drowning).

She pressed her palms harder over her ears, and focused with all her might on blocking out the murderous presence around her. She felt her legs collapse beneath her as she fell to her knees, still futilely clutching her head. Her vision blurred, her head felt like it was being crushed, and she felt tears streaming down her face.

There, further down the alley, she could just make out the faintest silhouette of someone… or some creature…


	4. Apologizing to Sherlock Holmes

Peter was screaming, he wasn't even aware that he was doing it. The wind rushed past him and the ground rushed towards him. He was falling, he was certain he was going to die. The girl next to him threw her hands up in the air (one hand still holding his), and laughed, the sound was somewhere between glee, exhilaration, and utter madness. Needless to say, Peter was afraid.

Then there was the snapping, cracking, crumbling, breaking, of tree limbs; a thousand dashes of pain whipping across his skin; and then a sudden, jolting stop. The dirt hit him like a truck, jolting his body down to his very bones. And for a moment he just lay there, unable to breathe, his whole body aching, he was certain that something was broken.

The Doctor jumped up, pumping her fists into the air and screaming in delight.

"Wooo! Let's do that again!" she yelled.

"Let's… not…" Peter gasped, still lying on the ground, finding himself unable to move.

"Come on Petes, time to get up," she said.

"It's Peter…"

"Right, whatever you say, Petes," she replied, "Anyway, there's a killer with a chainsaw after us, so there's no time for naps!" she said, grabbing him by the hand and hauling him to his feet, his body creaked and groaned in protest.

"Don't worry, nothing's broken. You've just got the wind knocked out of you is all," she said, giving him the once over, and then pulling him by the hand away from the building.

"Lydia…" Peter managed to say.

"Don't worry, my friends are on the job. They've probably cornered the second Ripper and have 'im in custody as we speak," she replied. "But anyway, let's follow their trail and lend a hand" she walked off down the alley, looking intently at the ground, and still holding onto Peter's hand.

They followed the minute trails left by the Ripper and the Doctor's companions until they came to a fork.

"They split up," the Doctor commented, kneeling on the ground so she could get a closer look at the traces.

"What happened?" Peter asked.

"Impossible to tell, as of yet," she replied, "But, my guess is that Gage and Siv, who were some distance behind Clara, took a wrong turn. Clara was close enough to the Ripper to continue the chase."

"Then what do we do now?"

"We start with Clara and the Ripper, and hope that it isn't over yet."

They followed the trail to its conclusion, where three people seemed to have met up, and where an additional four people were presumed to have been present, and likely bound, unconscious, or rendered otherwise immobile.

"How can you tell all that?" Peter asked, looking at the ground, all he saw was a mess of footprints, a few scuffs, and some drops of blood.

"There are four different tracks. Two are humanoid, both of which are footprints, indicating that they were able-bodied and from their positioning, they weren't restrained or threatened. The first is from the Ripper Clara was chasing, but his footsteps are significantly deeper than those we followed to here, indicating that he was carrying both Clara and your friend Lydia," the Doctor explained, indicating a shoe-print in the ground.

"The second pair of feet is lighter, unencumbered, and is likely the Ripper that we faced. And that's where things get weird," the Doctor said, then paused thoughtfully, putting a finger to her lower lip.

"Weird, how?" Peter asked.

"The other two tracks were made by people being dragged, likely Gage and Siv, but there isn't any sign of who, or what, did the dragging," the Doctor said. "And then it goes even further, because, right in this spot, they disappear. Poof, no trace, just gone"

"But that's impossible!" Peter exclaimed. "People can't just vanish… can they?"

"No, there's definitely a cause. I just don't know what it is yet," the Doctor said, then shook her head, as though she was a dog shedding water from its pelt, "Anyway, we should check and make sure that it really is Siv and Gage missing, it would be a shame to just have them wandering aimlessly around London."

"A shame…?" Peter echoed, he wasn't sure that was the right choice of words for the situation.

They followed the tracks once more, circling back until they found the spot where they had first diverged.

"It's them," the Doctor confirmed.

"The Rippers have them," Peter said. "What will they do to them?"

The Doctor shook her head, she didn't know. She didn't know anything, and it was incredibly frustrating. A part of her couldn't help but think that if any of her past selves had been here instead, then this wouldn't have happened. Even though she only recalled vague shadows and fleeting glimpses of her past, she still had an impression of the twelve men that had preceded her, and next to them she felt immature and inept, even though she was supposed to be the oldest. They had saved universes. She couldn't even keep her friends safe.

"Oh well, I'm sure they'll be fine," the Doctor said, waving off the past like an annoying fly and putting on a big, cheerful smile. "They're a smart group, they'll be… fine…"

"You said fine twice" Peter noticed.

"Yeah, because they'll be doubly fine," the Doctor answered.

"I don't think that's how it works," Peter said.

"It is too. Just you wait and see, they'll be… fine."

"Right. Fine. So how do we find them?" Peter asked, "Or rather, how do we find them in time?"

"…. I don't… know… exactly…" the Doctor said, the words felt painful, like by uttering them she was committing a betrayal. "… I think we may need help…"

She knew there wasn't anything wrong in needing help, everyone needed help from time to time, it was nothing to be ashamed of. And yet… and yet, she was. She was deeply humiliated by the admission.

"We'll need someone clever, observant, cunning, someone who knows the area and will be able to put all the pieces together… you don't happen to know anyone like that, do you?" the Doctor asked, hopeful, despite the absurdity of the request, a part of her suspected that he did know someone just like that. After all, what were he and Lydia doing, hunting the Ripper like that? Unless, of course, they were working for someone, someone clever and connected, someone that was collecting information on the Ripper. And the Doctor did have a sneaky suspicion who that someone was.

"Actually, I do know someone like that!" Peter exclaimed, his face brightening with new hope. "Lydia was working for Sherlock Holmes, and apparently he's the most perceptive man in the galaxy. That sounds kind of odd, saying it like that, but nonetheless, Lydia believed it was true."

"Right now, we can only hope that it is," the Doctor said. "Now, take me to Sherlock Holmes."

**

They arrived at 221B Baker Street sometime later and were greeted by a kindly woman who appeared to be in her sixties, and who could only be Mrs. Hudson.

"Mrs. Hudson," Peter confirmed, nodding his head in greeting.

"Oh Peter, you're back. Did it go alright? I know Holmes has a bad habit of putting people in danger, especially himself," Mrs. Hudson said, "Hmm, where's Lydia?" she asked, and then noticed the Doctor. "And who is she?"

"Ah, this is the Doctor," Peter said. "And, um, we really do need to talk with Mr. Holmes. It's urgent."

"Very well then, come in," Mrs. Hudson said, a question burning in her eyes, but for once she didn't dare voice it, instead she pleasantly ushered her guests inside and led them to the room where Holmes waited.

"Come in," a voice answered in response to Mrs. Hudson's knock.

They stepped into a room of organized chaos: a place for everything and everything in its place, just not the place anyone expected it to be. For instance, there were several letters stuck into the wood above the fireplace by a knife, and the Doctor noticed the leaves of some unidentifiable plant sticking out of a slipper lying on the floor.

Seated comfortably in their respective chairs were Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson, figures of myth and legend lounging around in the flesh. Anyone who was familiar with the stories would instantly recognize them; they were very accurate recreations, to the point that many considered this incarnation of the duo to be the true Holmes and Watson. And, looking at them, the Doctor found it hard to disagree; after all, the originals had been stories, but these men were alive, in some ways they were more real than the originals.

"Ah, Peter, you've returned," Holmes said, his excitement clear in every small movement. Of course it was Holmes: tall and gaunt with piercing eyes and dark hair, who else could it be? "But where is Lydia?"

"Yes, and who the devil is she?" Watson asked; he really wasn't one to mince words, and from the start he didn't trust the Doctor. Still, Watson was just as recognizable as Holmes: slightly shorter and definitely fuller figured, he also had his iconic mustache and proper gentleman's haircut.

"Mr. Holmes I…" Peter began, but he didn't know how to finish that statement, or rather couldn't bring himself to. He knew that it was his fault, all of it, if he hadn't been distracted then the Ripper wouldn't have snuck up on Lydia and captured her, leading to the capture of Gage and the other friends of the Doctor. And he was struck by a sudden realization: if anything happened to them, if they died, then it would be his fault. The words froze on his lips, half formed.

"Hello, I'm the Doctor," she cut in, introducing herself with improbable cheer. Her feelings were pretty much identical to Gage's, but she was quite a bit better at hiding them. "And I'm sorry, Lydia and my friends were captured by the Rippers. It was my fault," …so maybe she wasn't as great at hiding her thoughts as she believed she was; this incarnation of her certainly had a penchant for blunt honesty.

"What?!" Watson exclaimed.

"What happened?" Holmes asked, his eyes burned with a painful remorse that only the keenly observant (and Watson) could detect.

"Well, you see…" the Doctor explained everything that happened, from her meeting with Peter and their rooftop escape to them following the tracks that told a grim tale before abruptly ending.

"Holmes, what could this mean?" Watson asked.

Holmes didn't answer; instead he continued staring straight ahead, deep in thought, trying to work the pieces of the puzzle together.

Watson's gaze fixed on the Doctor, something didn't feel right about this young girl, she was more than she seemed, and he got the feeling that she was dangerous. She obviously knew more than she was letting on, information that could potentially save lives, not to mention the fact that if she hadn't interrupted, it was entirely probable that Lydia wouldn't have been taken. No, this Doctor was suspicious, and Watson had always been a man of action… he pulled down the sword hanging in its sheath on the wall, and before anyone could react, he pointed its polished end at the Doctor's throat.

"Who are you and what are you after?" Watson asked.

"I'm the Doctor and I want to get my friends back," she replied.

"Doctor who?" he questioned.

"No," she said, putting her finger to the blade, "Just the Doctor," and she gently pushed the sword away.

"Why did you interfere? What do you want with the Ripper?" he asked.

"Well, firstly it's 'Rippers', plural, and secondly, my friends and I were accidentally trapped in this Niche, so I figured the quickest way to escape would be to catch the Rippers," she explained.

"And yeah, I messed up, and this is my fault," she continued. "I just saw someone on the roof, thought it was suspicious, and decided to check it out. I didn't know there were multiple Rippers or that they would choose that moment to strike, and I definitely didn't know that my actions would mess everything up even worse."

"It astounds me," Watson commented. "That you can so thoroughly answer a question while evading its core truths."

"Oh, you mean I've missed the main points?" the Doctor replied, smiling apologetically. "Sorry about that."

"More importantly, shouldn't we be thinking of a way to find Lydia, Gage, and the others?" Peter interrupted before the situation could escalate further.

The Doctor nodded emphatically, wholeheartedly agreeing. And Watson, seeing that he wasn't going to get suitable answers, learn more about this suspicious woman, or improve the situation, grudgingly put his sword back and regained his seat. Holmes was still sitting in his usual position, deep in thought, and had apparently taken no notice of what had just occurred.

Mrs. Hudson, for anyone curious, was standing just outside the door, listening in; it would've been bad manners to stay without being first invited, but she was curious (and worried) about what had happened to Lydia: she had seemed like such a sweet girl, and brave too. It really would be a shame if anything happened to her.


	5. The Mob

There was a box set in the middle of an empty room. It was a wooden crate to be precise, and the room was quite cave-like, being poorly lit with slick floors and dripping water, could it even be called a room?

And of course, inside the box, were the four people everyone seemed to be worried about. Actually only the Doctor and company were worried about them, but they're really everyone that matters, all the other residents of London, EC-146 were perpetually too occupied with their own troubles and so they really couldn't be bothered to spare a worry for someone else's.

Somehow Lydia, Clara, Gage, and Siv were all still alive, and slowly, one by one, they were waking up. It appears that they disrupted the Rippers' ritual and so were of no use to them, that, or the Rippers were planning to kill them later, perhaps as a larger sacrifice to their twisted plans, if indeed they actually had any plans. Perhaps the Rippers had some large scheme and the murders were just a means to an end. Perhaps they belonged to some obscure cult and were pawns in other's plans. Or perhaps they were just murderous, insane psychopaths that merely enjoyed the kill.

Whatever the case, it occurred to each of the captives upon their awaking that they should probably escape, and do so as quickly as possible. But unfortunately for them, the crate they were locked in was quite sturdy…

**

The Doctor, Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, and Peter Ness were on a walk. Holmes knew the city's underbelly better than almost anyone and had a few ideas where the Rippers may be holing up. So far they hadn't panned out, but Holmes wasn't ready to give up yet; he had several more ideas and quite a few contacts left to pursue before he even approached the idea of defeat (even temporary defeat).

The group was stopped short by the presence of a large crowd gathered in the road in front of them. They were jeering at someone, pumping their fists in the air threateningly, and Peter could even see a few stones being thrown.

"What's going on?" the Doctor asked, standing behind the group and being significantly shorter, she had an even worse view than Peter.

"A lynching," Sherlock Holmes said, grimacing.

"What?!" Peter exclaimed.

"That's the second one this week," Watson added.

"How could they do that? Why isn't anyone stopping them?!" Peter asked.

"It's because they're afraid," the Doctor answered, her mouth setting into a tight line and her eyes fixed firmly on the ground in front of her.

"So what, they just gang up on anyone that looks suspicious?" Peter asked, incredulous.

"Basically" she responded.

"How many have there been in total?" Peter asked, looking at Watson.

"Including this one, five," he responded.

"So they've already killed four innocent people," Peter said, looking at the crowd in horror.

"Yes, and they only started last week," Holmes said. "At this rate they'll be more prolific than the Rippers."

"They only started last week…" Peter echoed. "But the killings started weeks ago."

"At first the Rippers were only copying the original's crimes, killing prostitutes and taunting the police. Then they finished recreating the murders and went off script. It seems their ideas are more horrifying to the common Londoner than even the original Ripper," Watson said in a thoughtful way.

"But people are people, how are these off script murders more disturbing than the originals?" Peter asked.

"Because it was 'them' and not 'us'," the Doctor replied, her face was dark and impassive. "That's what they thought when it was just prostitutes dying. They thought they were safe, that anyone they could possibly know or care about was safe. And then the Rippers started killing indiscriminately, putting the bodies on display. And suddenly it wasn't just 'them' anymore, it was anybody. Anyone could be the next victim. No one was safe. And now everyone is scared."

Everyone was silent for a moment, there was nothing to say, no way to respond, no suitable comment. Holmes, a perpetual study of behavior, had come to the same conclusion. Watson, who had witnessed worse in his eventful life, wasn't shocked, horrified, or even surprised by such actions or the psychology behind them. Only Peter was shocked and horrified, and, standing in the midst of everything he had once wanted (a world of science-fiction, aliens, and the bizarre), suddenly realized that he wanted to go home.

_Perhaps the pressures of living up to a family's expectations weren't so bad… Peter thought._

"This is so messed up," Peter said, looking on at the crowd, listening to the stones and the taunts and the sounds of someone in pain. And all at once it overwhelmed him; his stomach turned over and he stumbled back, leaning against a building and puking.

The Doctor showed no sign of emotion, her face was completely blank, but if one was observant enough, as Holmes was, they could glean a glimpse of the truth: something dark in her expression, something angry in her eyes, and something like sorrow, disappointment, and resignation in the set of her shoulders. Holmes stepped forward and reached for her arm, but she was already gone, pushing her way through the crowd before anyone could stop her.

In the center of the mob a man was kneeling on the ground, he was bent over, his hands covering his face, and blood was streaming from the many wounds inflicted upon him, it dripped through his fingers and matted his hair, stained his skin and colored the ground. He heard someone throw another stone, but there was no accompanying pain or injury. He looked up in surprise, an injury to his head had left streams of blood sluicing down his face, making it difficult to see very well, but he saw her. There was a girl, a woman, standing in front of him, her arms outstretched, shielding him from the crowd.

"Hey girl, get outta the way!" someone called, throwing another stone, this time at her.

"No!" she called back, "I won't let you kill an innocent man."

"He ain't innocent!" another mob-goer replied.

"Fine, then take him to the police and let him stand trial," she said. "Let there be due process and no shadow of a doubt of his guilt."

"There are no shadows to his guilt," someone else replied, a woman.

"Yeah, everyone's seen him out after dark," someone else added.

"And messing around with the girls!" another person growled.

"Who else could be the Ripper?"

"Yeah, we all know it's him!"

"And is that what you said about the other four people you killed," the woman said, her words were followed by a moment of silence, and then a cacophony of noise as everyone threw their opinions at their neighbors and argued their point.

"The others may have been innocent, but this man is guilty!" someone said, their voice louder than the rest.

"The police aren't doing anything!"

"If we let the law handle it, we'll all die!"

"We ain't gonna sit by and let the Ripper kill more of us!"

"We're getting picked off one by one!"

"Last night there were two…"

The people started picking up stones and throwing them, not caring who they hit, whether it was the girl or the man, whether they were innocent or guilty.

"Stop! This isn't right!" someone else yelled, their voice cutting through the crowd, a young blond man standing next to two other men, trying to push their way through the crowd (some may recognize two of the men as a Mr. Holmes and a Mr. Watson, respectively; no one would recognize the third man, one time-lost Peter Ness).

"The world ain't right," a member of the crowd jeered.

"Yes, and you don't have to add to its wrongness" the girl said, the fresh blood all too apparent against her shocking white hair. "Just because the world isn't fair doesn't mean people can give up on justice."

The Doctor looked up at the crowd, her resolve was unshakable, her eyes were fixed and calm and filled with burning fire; no one would sway her. As her gaze drifted over the crowd they became acutely uncomfortable, feeling like misbehaving children caught in the act, and one by one they started to drop their stones.

A sharp grey pebble materialized from the crowd, hitting the Doctor. She stumbled and was momentarily disoriented, putting her hand against her temple.

"This is our justice," someone said, and the eyes of the crowd hardened, their resolves returning, and their hands grabbed the rocks strewn across the ground.

The Doctor was thinking very hard about how to get out of this situation, trying to frame the right argument and find the right words to sway the hearts of the assembled mob. Holmes and Watson were thinking along similar lines. Peter, the youngest and least experienced of the group, was ready to jump to the Doctor's aid (literally), and was only stopped by Watson's firm hand on his shoulder. Watson had once been that young and reckless; ready to leap to the aid of anything in a skirt, and not quite planning ahead or thinking of the consequences.

"Doctor!" a voice called from the crowd.

The Doctor turned towards the sound of the familiar voice, and all at once everything seemed to happen. She suddenly felt a coldness at her neck and a warmth at her back. Without moving her head, she looked down, and the coldness turned into a prick of pain and the warmth of dripping blood. The man at her back quickly flashed the knife for the crowd to see, turning it so that the blade caught the light and reflected it into the eyes of the spectators, before returning it to her throat. Everyone grew silent.

Clara burst through the crowd, stopping short in the empty space at its center as she saw the scene unfolding in front of her. There was a tall, long haired man holding a knife to the Doctor's throat, and both of them were injured. Many in the mob still had rocks in their hands, but were so startled by the sudden turn of events that they didn't know what to do with them. They were actually right for a change, they had actually found the Ripper.

The man used the crowd's stunned confusion to escape, throwing the Doctor over one shoulder and using his knife to slash at anyone that got in his way; they disappeared into the nearest alley.

Clara ran after them, shoving people aside, and burst into the alley only seconds after the man had entered. It was empty.

"Doctor!" she called, but there was no reply.

**

"Clara!" Gage called, running into the alley just after her.

"Gage!" Peter called, also arriving in the alley and noticing his long-time friend Gage.

"Peter!" Gage exclaimed.

Then Lydia, Holmes and Watson all entered the alley, nearly running into each other.

"Lydia!" Holmes, Watson, and Peter said, simultaneously.

"Holmes, Watson!" Lydia exclaimed.

Siv wondered if this was some bizarre human custom.

"Who are all these people?" Watson asked, prompting Peter and Gage to introduce everyone.

"Now that we have these pointless introductions out of the way, can we please attend to the larger matter at hand?" Clara said sharply, motioning at the ground. "The Doctor's been abducted, and could be about to die while we stand here exchanging pleasantries."

"Quite right Miss Clara, thank you for keeping us on point," Holmes said (and Clara would later swear that he winked at her); then he strode forward deeper into the alley and knelt down to examine the ground.

Holmes touched his finger to a shoeprint left in the dirt, bringing his fingers up to his face for closer inspection. He rubbed his thumb and finger together, examining whatever he had picked up. Then he laid down on his stomach and put his face on the ground.

"Hmm…" he murmured.

"What is it?" Clara asked. "What did you find?"

"Well, it's too early to say that our Doctor friend is with the Ripper, or one of the Rippers anyway… but the man that took her most definitely wasn't human," Holmes said, standing back up and looking at a point above his head.

Clara followed Holmes's gaze; it was fixed on a nearby rooftop.

"You don't mean…?" Clara said.

"The footprints, they're deeper than an average persons," Gage commented, also looking at the tracks. "And where they disappear, they're even deeper, and they're pointed… Oh, I see what you mean," he said, his eyes also wandering upward.

"Well, don't leave us in suspense," Lydia said, a bit annoyed. "Tell us what you've figured out."

"Sorry," Gage apologized, blushing.

"They figured out how the man escaped," Siv said, her voice sounding far away, then she also looked up at the neighboring rooftop.

"He jumped," Clara supplied. "Three stories in the air."

"But that isn't possible," Lydia said.

"Not for a normal human, no," Clara agreed. "But after all I've seen, I wouldn't be surprised if there were some aliens that could."

"And during the war, I saw my share of augmented humans," Watson added. "Some were strong enough to bend iron, others had the stamina to go days without sleep or run untiring for miles. After all, what's the point of altering a soldier if you don't make them better…" as Watson spoke, his gazed was far-off and unseeing, "Anyway, I wouldn't rule out the possibility of this being some altered human."

"Speculations, speculations," Holmes said, obviously annoyed. "We need to get on that roof, there may be some vital clue we've missed. We have too little evidence, at this point it would be reckless to form definite conclusions."

Holmes strode off towards the building's entrance, leaving everyone else behind. It almost looked like he was sulking.

Everyone followed after him moments later, but by the time they reached the door he was halfway to the roof. As they climbed up the stairs, chasing after the frantic detective, Peter asked the question that was on everyone's mind:

"How did you guys escape the Rippers?" Peter asked.

"Oh, well, that's a long story," Gage said, sighed and then dove in, his retelling of the story occasionally punctuated by comments from Lydia, Siv, and Clara.

There was a box set in the middle of an empty room. It was a wooden crate to be precise, and the room was quite cave-like, being poorly lit with slick floors and dripping water, could it even be called a room?

The crate was made from a wood as sturdy as iron.

_"Seriously? Why are you going on about the box?" Lydia asked._

Anyway, the box…

_"Skip the box!" Lydia hissed._

One by one we woke up inside this box. There was so little light we could barely see, and the most we could make out were silhouettes…

"Hello, is anyone there?" Gage asked, his question was greeted with silence.

_"Uhm, that's not how I remember it happening. I distinctly remember waking up first," Clara added._

_"No, that was me, you woke up after," Lydia interjected._

*Ahem* Anyway…

"Gage?" Clara responded. "Are you alright?"

"Clara…?" Gage said, still a bit groggy, then he responded. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine."

"Is Siv here too?" Clara asked.

"Yes, I am also present here," Siv responded. "But, where is 'here'?"

"And who are you people?" Lydia asked.

"Hello, I'm Clara, this is Gage, and that's Siv'Irai… for what it's worth," Clara said, trying to introduce them in the nearly absolute darkness where faces had no names or meanings, "Who are you?"

"Lydia," Lydia responded. "Were you guys also captured by the Ripper?"

"Yes, though from what I gather, there's probably more than one," Gage said.

"More than one? Are you sure?" Lydia asked.

"Yeah, there's no way one guy could have nabbed all of us at the same time," Gage replied. "Plus, Siv and I weren't even near you guys when we were captured… we got… disoriented. And the creature that knocked us out definitely wasn't human."

"Creature?" Clara asked.

"Yes, it was some form of alien species I have never encountered before," Siv said, "It most certainly had very intense telepathic abilities, enough to induce hallucinations and unconsciousness."

"Blimey," Lydia said, like a curse. "How do we compete with something like that?"

"First thing's first, let's get out of here," Clara said. "We won't be of any use if we're dead."

"Or trapped like rats in this box," Gage added, he gave a solid kick at the crate.

"Ow," Siv said passively, her voice carefully emotionless. "That was my arm, not the crate."

"Sorry…" Gage said, then exclaimed a sharp "Ow!" as a foot hit him squarely in the face.

"Sorry," Siv said, her tone neutral and unrepentant. "I was also aiming for the crate."

"You totally did that on purpose," Gage said.

"I guess we'll never know the truth," she replied.

"Children. Please stop squabbling," Clara said in her best teacher voice, then, after a moment of silence she continued. "Now, any ideas how we can get out of here? ...Other than aimlessly kicking each other…?"

"If we all sit in the middle of the crate, we can brace our backs and kick the crate together," Lydia suggested.

"The forces would be spread out, instead of focused in one area. Also, this crate seems unusually sturdy. I don't think it would be enough to break it," Gage said.

"Well then Gage, do you have a better idea?" Clara asked.

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I do," Gage said, and then went on to explain his plan. "If we all sit on one side of the crate, and kick together, the force we apply would be focused on the same wall of the crate. If we're using force to get out of here, then I think that would be our best bet."

"Siv, can you use your telekinesis to remove the nails holding this crate together?" Clara asked; the thought having come to her after hearing Gage's plan.

"No… I'm sorry, I can't," Siv replied. "This wood is not normal, it is… absorbing my psychic abilities."

"It must be made from Oborose trees," Lydia said.

"Oborose trees?" Clara asked.

"Yes, they're called Psychic Trees," Lydia replied. "They grow on the planet Oboro. The forests there are said to change with the moods of the people that inhabit it. As far as anyone knows the trees aren't sentient, but the colors of their leaves still change seemingly at random, and the pattern of their growth even suggests that they are aware of other life forms and grow in ways that accommodate them. After quite a bit of testing, scientists eventually came to the conclusion that the trees were psychic. And later they discovered that the wood from these trees naturally inhibits psychic abilities."

"So they decided to use this probably rare and expensive wood to make… crates?" Gage said, disbelieving. "What are they planning on shipping anyway?"

"We can worry about that later," Clara said. "For now, let's just focus on getting out of this box."

"So then, we will go with Gage's plan?" Siv asked.

"Yes," Clara replied.

In the cramped darkness they managed to move around just enough to be on the same side of the crate, but really, the crate was so small Clara ended up sitting on Siv's lap and Gage was awkwardly crammed into the corner. After much wiggling, and quite a bit of cursing, they settled into their spots and when Clara gave the order, they all kicked out at the crate's side. They kicked again. And again. And again.

With a loud creaking, the crate cracked, splintered, and broke under their combined force. But as the force of their kick sent the crate's side flying outward, they were sent with equal force in the opposite direction, and being one side short, the crate collapsed entirely, leaving them sprawled on the floor, covered by the wood.

Gage clutched his leg, Lydia held her foot, Siv massaged her arm, and Clara rubbed her head.

"Okay, I get why this guy's holding his leg, and I'm holding my foot, but what the heck are you two doing?!" Lydia asked, pointing an accusing finger at Siv and Clara.

"My arm's still sore from where Gage kicked me," Siv replied, pointedly.

"The crate fell on my head," Clara answered.

"Oh," Lydia said.

**

"And that's what happened," Gage finished.

He turned and saw Peter and Watson looking at him with carefully blank faces; the expressions of those who feel they're witnessing something incredibly stupid but are too polite to say anything about it.

"Hey, what's with those looks?" Gage asked.

"All of that, and you didn't even find out what they're using the crates for?" Watson said, his face carefully neutral.

"You get locked in a crate with three girls, and all you manage to do is kick one in the arm?" Peter added, his face still expressionless.

"The building was empty, there wasn't any clue what they've been using the crates for," Gage protested. "And seriously Peter, that's the only thing you're worried about?!"

The elbow came out of nowhere, smashing Peter in the face and causing him to fall over.

"Oops, sorry, I tripped," Siv said, smiling; there was something distinctly unapologetic about that smile.

"No… no worries," Peter said, waving it off while simultaneously holding his bloody nose.

By then they'd already made their way to the roof, where they found an intense Holmes crawling on the ground.

"By the way, what's he doing?" Siv asked, pointing at Holmes.

"Searching for evidence," Watson said confidently.

"Really? To me he looks more like a hunting dog that's lost the scent," Clara said.

"Holmes, is there any evidence they were here?" Watson called, hoping he'd found something.

"They most definitely were here," Holmes replied, holding up what looked like a strand of white hair.

"Oh, that's great! Which way did they go?" Peter asked.

"Impossible to tell," Holmes replied.

"*Tsk*, he's right, even if we search all the surrounding buildings individually, there's no guarantee we'd find the trail, not to mention all the time we'd waste," Clara said, looking out into the distance, her eyes were ablaze with an intense wrath.

"So what do we do now?" Lydia asked.

"My dear, we keep looking," Watson replied.


	6. Meeting the Rippers

"Now then, let us examine the evidence…" Holmes began; he was standing in front of the assembled group like a professor about to give a lecture. They were back at 221b Baker Street, sitting in the cluttered living room and poised to examine all the details of the Ripper case.

"Oh my, Mr. Holmes, you're pushing these young'uns too hard. You're all likely to collapse at this rate," Mrs. Hudson said, fretting over them; she had entered the room with a tray covered in small pastries and polished tea cups, and was in the process of offering them to the guests.

"Don't be absurd," Holmes said, distractedly. "We can rest when we're dead; right now we've got a case to solve, and I feel we're very close to the solution, as though we're only missing one key piece of evidence, perhaps something was overlooked…"

Normally, Holmes wouldn't collaborate like this, not with anyone, not even his closest friend Watson. But Siv'Irai had worked her telepathy on him, discreetly pressuring the consulting detective on a subconscious level, while Clara deftly persuaded him from the outside. By the time they had reached Baker Street, Holmes had caved under their combined efforts, and Watson watched dumbstruck, marveling at their unprecedented success.

"First we must examine the questions that must be answered: Who are our criminals? What are their motivations? And where are they?" Holmes lectured. "Now, we have already checked the most ideal, and thus likely, locations, but there was no trace of our culprits. Theories?"

"Well, they're obviously somewhere else, then," Peter said. "Perhaps somewhere we haven't thought to look."

"Or they've hidden themselves really well," Lydia added.

"They could be using some sort of perception filter," Clara added. "They could be hiding in plain sight, but without knowing what to look for we'd never find them."

"Yes, but there isn't any technology allowed in EC-146," Lydia pointed out. "They'd have no way to set up a perception filter without advanced technology."

There was a moment of silence as they thought about other ways perception filters could be set up, or other ways the Rippers could be hiding themselves.

"They might be able to do it," Siv suggested. "They could set up a perception filter without technology, if they were telepathic, and their if abilities were strong enough, and they had enough control."

"That would also explain how Siv and I were knocked out," Gage added.

"Can you sense this telepathic interference? Trace it back to its source?" Holmes asked Siv.

"Now that I know what to look out for… I can try…" she said uncertainly. "But if they are that strong…"

"Don't worry, we've got your back," Clara said, sensing Siv's concern and trying to comfort her.

Siv nodded. "Then I will try…" she said, closing her eyes, her eyebrows drew together in concentration, and her third eye opened, shimmering purple, like a gem, filled with black void and holding no trace of the eye's white sclera.

For several moments they all stared at her expectantly, but then, realizing that nothing was likely to happen anytime soon, Holmes suggested they return to the task of examining the evidence.

"We know that there are three killers," Holmes said. "But it is impossible to know of any additional conspirators or supporters."

"Three, how did we get that number?" Lydia asked.

"Looking at the crimes, there are three distinct signatures. In addition, when you encountered the Rippers the other night, there could have been no less than three perpetrators, supporting the initial hypothesis. One that cornered the Doctor and Peter on the roof. One that captured Lydia and Clara. And the final one, which was presumably telepathic, and knocked out Gage and Siv."

Gage, who was going through photographs and notes taken from the various crime scenes, looked up at the mention of his name and agreed:

"I believe he's right, there are three of them," Gage said, putting down three different case files. "Look," he motioned at the first. "This victim was dismembered while still alive, it was gruesome, definitely the work of a sadist. Then there's this second one; from the lack of blood, she was dismembered after death, yet there are signs of other torture. And the third one, two victims, their throats slashed, no dismemberment, they bled out quickly and didn't suffer much. Outside of the recreations of the original murders, there are three distinct MO's."

"MO's?" Lydia asked, she'd heard the acronym before but never thought it was important, until now.

"Stands for 'Modus Operandi'," Gage explained. "It's the way someone does something, their method, their routine, their signature..."

"So what does that give us?" Peter asked.

"Can we use it to identify the killers, or figure out their motives?" Clara asked.

"Well, it's a start" Watson said, he was staring intently at the photographs. "Holmes, what do you think?"

"Two humans and an alien," Holmes replied instantly. "One is a female; the other male and most certainly heavily augmented; that leaves the alien, which would be the telepathic member of their group."

"How'd 'ja get all that?" Lydia asked, looking at the photos all she saw was lots of blood.

"Elementary, my dear Lydia," Holmes said. "For now, let's call them Rippers 1, 2, and 3. In the case of Ripper 1, the victim was always disabled first, via slashes to tendons, and from the marks made on the bone, a mechanized weapon was used…"

"The Ripper that cornered me and the Doctor on the roof had a chainsaw," Peter added.

"Precisely, and that, combined with these distinctive shoe prints, and the faint smell of flowers at the scene, leads me to believe that Ripper 1 is female," Holmes said.

"Perfume and heels," Clara said. "But only at some of the scenes."

"Yes, and being a woman she would not have the strength to hold someone down as she hacked them to death, certainly not a grown man," Watson added. "She needed some form of advantage, like a chainsaw, to help her commit the murders and indulge in her sadistic fantasies."

"This second Ripper, Ripper 2, is likely the alien," Holmes continued. "There are obvious signs of torture and yet no evidence of restraints, nothing physical anyway. And as there were no drugs found in her system that leaves telepathic restraints. Ripper 2 then dismembered the body post-mortem, so they aren't quite as sadistic as Ripper 1."

"And Ripper 3 isn't sadistic at all, he's trying to make a statement," Gage added.

"Yes," Holmes said, looking sideways at Gage. "His victims died relatively quick, painless deaths. But then they were put on display, the obvious intent being to make a statement; possibly cause panic, unrest, or general chaos. In one case there were multiple victims, a man and a woman, and they were then strung up between buildings. There were no signs of assistance, or of anyone else at the scene. The only way for him to do that single-handedly would be if he was augmented. And from the footprints, he is also the one that kidnapped the Doctor."

"A loose nail in the sole?" Peter asked, thinking that must be the clue that had led Holmes to that final deduction.

Everyone turned to him. Clara and Watson raised curious eyebrows. Gage and Holmes both looked at him in disbelief.

"What? I'm right aren't I?" Peter said defensively. "… I read the original series too…"

"Yes Peter. Very good. Quite right," Holmes said brusquely, deciding to dismiss the comment. "Now Watson, hand me that file," he said, pointing towards a very thin folder.

"I've been compiling a list of suspects," Holmes explained. "And I believe we have enough information now to identify at least one of the perpetrators."

**

The Doctor dispassionately watched the ground whirling by beneath her. She'd been slung over a strange man's shoulder and was being carried like lifeless cargo to some unknown destination. While she contemplated her situation, she absently hummed.

The man carrying her was inhumanly strong and agile, jumping from rooftop to rooftop easily, the ground flew by beneath his steady feet. The Doctor was dying to ask him some questions, and possibly determine whether or not he's a psychotic killer, but due to her awkward position, and the man's silence, she had yet to learn anything.

"Hum, hum, hum, hum, hum, hum, huuuum," the Doctor absently hummed… and hummed… and hummed…

The man stopped on a rooftop and set the Doctor down.

"Would you mind stopping that?" he asked her.

"Hmm, why?" the Doctor asked.

"It's rather annoying, so if you could stop…?"

"Okey, dokey," she said with a mischievous grin. "Can you tell me who you are?"

"Umm, not really… no… I can't…"

"Okey, doke… Hum, hum, hum, hum…"

"Okay, okay, fine, just please stop that."

The Doctor stopped, and fixed the large man with her narrow blue gaze. Caught by those piercing eyes, suddenly the man preferred her humming. He looked at the young woman, trying to match her gaze, but his eyes kept shifting away, often being drawn to her unruly white hair. It's not like it was impossible, or even entirely uncommon… and yet his eyes kept gravitating towards her hair, or maybe it was more accurate to say, away from her face… and those keen blue eyes.

"I am Dax, Jermaine Dax," he replied at length.

"And I am the Doctor, just the Doctor," she answered. "Now tell me, are you a serial killer?"

To this he did not reply. The Doctor looked sharply at Jermaine Dax, and for his part, Dax felt like he had never been so closely scrutinized before. She took in his tall, muscular build; his deep-set, dark eyes; and his long black hair, which was even longer than hers and fell just past his shoulders.

"You're an augmented human, aren't you?" the Doctor said after a pause. But Dax did not reply, so she continued.

"Oh well, no need to respond, I know you are," she said. "You're definitely human. Can't hide that smell. And from what you can do, you're definitely augmented. So the question is why, for what purpose were you augmented…?"

There was still no response, so she continued, taking in every small detail and theory-crafting as she went.

"You don't seem like a murderer, and you don't sound like one…" the Doctor said, and then without any warning she reached forward, grabbed a handful of hair, and pulled him closer. Caught quite by surprise, it was easy for the Doctor to throw him off balance. But instead of killing him and escaping, like Dax thought she would, the Doctor sniffed the hair and then put it in her mouth.

"Uhmm…" Dax began, he tried pulling away, but the sharp pain in his scalp stopped him, so, failing that, he tried to get his hair out of her mouth. "Do you mind… my hair… it's in your…" he tried to ask, but he had never been terribly good with words and his sentences ended almost before they began.

"Blaugh," the Doctor spat, releasing Dax's hair. "You definitely taste like a killer though. Blood's awfully hard to get out, and the blood on you isn't yours."

"So I don't get it, are you a killer, or aren't you?" the Doctor asked, not entirely expecting an answer.

"He most **definitely** is a killer," a voice said from across the roof.

The Doctor's head shot up towards the sound of the voice, it was a woman's. She walked towards them, her heels clicking in a noticeable sashay. She wore a dress the color of rust and chocolate syrup; it reminded the Doctor of drying blood. And the roses in her hat were a brilliant red, nearly the same shade as her candy-apple hair. Beneath the perfume and flowers there was the unmistakable smell of blood. She was the second Ripper. And the Doctor had no doubt that she was a willing, eager participant.

"Takes one to know one, I suppose," the Doctor said, shrugging her shoulders.

"Quite," the woman said, politely, and yet her eyes narrowed into slits, fixing onto the Doctor as though honing in on prey.

The Doctor stayed seated on the ground, merely tilting her head to the side and looking dispassionately at the blood-red woman. She was seemingly unperturbed being in the presence of two serial killers, one of which was already clearly deciding on the best way to kill her.

"I'm the Doctor, what's your name?" she asked after a while.

The woman laughed; it wasn't particularly sweet or nice, "Rose, I am the Lady Rose."

"Rose… I knew someone named Rose…" the Doctor said in her most level voice. "For some reason I don't think that's your real name…"

The woman's laughter abruptly stopped. "Why, that isn't…"

"Enough!" a new voice snapped.

The Doctor looked over towards the source of the voice: a young boy of maybe ten. But the moment the Doctor laid eyes on the child, she knew that there was something terribly wrong. The boy's skin had an unhealthy grayish tint; the bags under his eyes were more like bruises; and his eyes themselves seemed reddish and sickly. The Doctor's first instinct was to run over to the boy and check him for fever, but instead she stayed firmly in her spot. She suspected that there was more to this than met the eye.

"And who are you?" the Doctor asked, her voice bubbly, and perhaps a little insane; she couldn't explain the sinking feeling in her stomach, or why her body was crackling with electric fear.

"Timothy," he replied, innocently, walking over to the Doctor. "And you are?" he asked, cupping the Doctor's chin with his cold, clammy fingers, tilting her head so that she was looking straight into his dead eyes.

"This is the Doctor," Lady Rose answered.

"Yeah, and you look pretty sick you know, maybe you should go lie down," the Doctor added, never looking away from those abyss-like eyes.

The boy smiled, but the expression wasn't at all kind or joyful; it was more predatory than the Lady Rose's. Then, abruptly, he let her go, and the Doctor felt an immense tension leave her body; she hadn't realized the stress the boy had been putting on her. He stepped back and addressed the Lady Rose.

"Yes, she'll do perfectly," he said. "Take her to the site."

As Timothy addressed Lady Rose, the Doctor decided that it was time to escape, but as she tried to stand, she found that her legs wouldn't move. She was paralyzed, her legs as useless as wood. Why wouldn't they move? What was causing this? Why hadn't she tried to stand up before? And it hit her. Dax hadn't stopped here randomly; this had been their meeting place all along. He'd been shushing her because of them. And the Doctor knew that Timothy had been here all along, and that it was he who was somehow responsible for her paralysis. Some kind of telepathic control perhaps? The Doctor mused.

"What of her companions?" Lady Rose asked.

"I am sure they can be of some use," Timothy replied, looking towards the Doctor with a vicious smile.

She struggled to examine the situation from all angles, to find some leverage, some advantage, but uncovered new possibilities only to discard them one by one. She felt time slow down around her as her brain released a concoction of chemicals, processing them with a brain that was very far from human. Her hearts were marching double-time in her chest, her legs were useless, and her hands seemed uncertain.

It was the all too familiar rush of fear.

But of course none of this was outwardly visible. A casual onlooker would only see a ditzy daydreamer, looking on with blissful lunacy, unaware of her imminent, grisly end.


	7. Dax

Jermaine Dax wondered how his life had spiraled so out of control. What had been the exact decision that had ruined his life?

And of course when he put it like that, the answer was obvious: he had decided to fight in a war, a war he shouldn't have had any part in.

He had joined the war to protect his sister, his friends, his home, The Coalition… at least, that's what he'd told himself. But now, in retrospect, he thought that maybe he'd just been fighting for himself. He'd been a nobody wanting to be a somebody, he had wanted to change his life, and his friends were all joining the war, so eventually he had decided to go too. If he hadn't then he wouldn't be where he was today.

Ever since then his life had been a series of bad decisions. First, the war. Next, the augmentations. Then he'd come home and found that there wasn't a place for someone like him. Sure, everyone supported the war, but then they didn't want to support the soldiers. When he'd been in uniform, random people would thank him, but then, in the reality of his civilian life, those same people turned their backs. Whenever he applied for a job, he would be turned away the moment he said 'soldier', if not, then certainly when he said 'augmented'. After all, nobody wanted a possibly violent, unstable man working for them; an ex-soldier who had killed people, and didn't have any other skills besides killing.

His friend, Kor'Inai, who fought with him in the war, had fared much better. He had other skills and talents, plus there was his charisma, and the fact that he wasn't augmented. He'd even tried to help Jermaine get a job. And Jermaine's sister Enoria had been equally supportive. But even with their help, Jermaine hadn't been able to pull his life together for more than a week at a time, and so he had decided to come to a Niche. There were several ways one could earn real-world credits inside a Niche, and the people living in the Communities were far less picky about their employees. So Jermaine had bought a ticket to NC-146, and boarded a spaceship to what he thought was NC-146. And for a while everything looked like it was getting better.

To preserve the illusion of Victorian London, new arrivals were dropped off on a disembarkation zone some distance away; an island where boats picked up new arrivals and ferried them to the Niche Community, and less frequently, where boats dropped off residents to be picked up and taken back to their distant homes. Jermaine Dax had gotten a job and even earned enough credits to send some back home to his sister, which was when he realized that he'd been dropped off in the wrong Community: EC-146 instead of NC-146. He'd been trapped here ever since, unable to even see his sister.

That was when he'd been approached by the Rippers, who had proposed a plan he couldn't refuse: recreate the Jack the Ripper murders, cause a spectacle, and expose the Entertainment Community. They figured that people wouldn't be able to ignore such heinous crimes and EC-146 would be torn down, its inhabitants sent home. At the very least, they knew that their actions would earn them fame, which would in turn gain them enough audience credits to return home on their own.

The second part was true: in the weeks since the murders began, he'd earned over half the points he needed to leave. And due to the workings of the Niche Communities, his identity would be obscured by computer programs and he'd be able to return home in anonymity (the audience didn't need to know the identity of someone to vote for them; in the cases of criminals, they were listed under pseudonyms and symbols). He was well on his way to leaving EC-146, and yet… now he wasn't so sure that he could ever truly return home. He realized that a part of him would forever be trapped here, with the lives that he had taken.

Sure, the people that he'd killed had skeletons in their own closets: the couple had been thieves, scamming local businesses and robbing them blind; while the man before that also certainly couldn't be called innocent… But in this unforgiving place, everyone had their skeletons. And the people he had aligned himself with were far worse, even he could see that.

Then there was the matter of the girl currently waiting to be Timothy's most recent sacrifice. She had done nothing wrong; if there was anyone in this entire, rotten Community worth sparing, it was her. The only thing she'd done was save Dax, and in this place, that sort of kindness was unheard of. That was partly why he was standing in front of the girl's cell.

When Dax had approached the Doctor, she had merely looked up, nothing more, and throughout his entire monologue her expression hadn't changed; she'd merely fixed the man with her penetrating gaze and listened with an unusual, quiet patience. She sat calmly in the middle of the room, chained to the floor and surrounded on three sides by the rows of tall, wooden planks that formed the walls of her makeshift prison. They were in a warehouse by the docks, where frequent shipments of supplies were carted to the Niche by spaceship, and then to the city by boat, but this warehouse was one of several that had been abandoned.

"I guess… what I wanted to say was… that I am sorry," Jermaine Dax said into the uncomfortable silence that the Doctor refused to fill, "And… I would also like to… thank you… I mean, you stood up for me… for me in a way that no one else ever has… I don't know why I brought you here… At first I just took you to get the both of us away from the mob… but then I didn't even think to put you down, and I don't know why… I'm sorry," he forced out the words, bit by bit, cajoling them to form meaning.

The Doctor said nothing, continued saying nothing, but it was like an expectant silence, as though she were waiting for… something.

"I didn't deserve to be saved," Dax said, breaking the silence once more. "I… I can't be saved anymore."

"Now, if you really believed that, I wouldn't be here," the Doctor said.

Dax's head snapped up, startled by her sudden speech. It took him a moment to process her meaning- did she think that he brought her here as a cry for help? And if that were true, would she be entirely wrong?

"I mean, I saved you once, so it isn't too far fetched to think that I might be able to save you again," the Doctor elaborated. "Right?"

"No, I wouldn't… I didn't…" Dax said, trying to object, but he couldn't find the right words. In truth, he simply didn't know: why he'd brought her here, what he was going to do next.

"Sorry," the Doctor said, smiling sadly. "But I can't save you."

"What…?" Dax said, bewildered, his skin went ice cold and for a second he wasn't sure if he could remember how to breathe.

"I can't save you," the Doctor repeated. "Look at my position," she said, gesturing at her cell. "Really, who do you think I am? The type of person that comes and whisks people away from their troubles? You're the one that got yourself into this situation, don't you think it'd be sorta cheap if I just came and solved all your problems for you?"

"It's not like I just made one bad decision," Dax said, words finally coming to him. "I'm drowning here! I'm in deep… too deep to dig myself out. Even if I decided to leave… there's no way these people would let me go. And what's worse… if I don't continue to go along with them… I will never leave this place… I will never see my sister again. What choice do I have?"

"I never said you had good options," the Doctor whispered, she was no longer smiling. "But we always do have a choice, and so we must make our decisions before they are made for us… then we only end up regretting them." She looked up at him, evenly meeting his troubled gaze.

After a moment of silence Jermaine Dax walked away, he had nothing more to say, and neither did the Doctor.

As soon as Dax left, the Doctor pulled two black pins from her hair and began bending them into shape. She felt bad about being so callous to Dax, but she knew that right now he didn't need kindness, he needed prodding in the right direction. And sure, she could help fix Dax's problems, but in the long term it would be far better for him to learn how to find his own solutions, to find the courage to face his demons and defeat them in his own way.

When she was satisfied with the pins she slipped them into the locks of her shackles and started picking. After a couple stubborn seconds, she was free. She walked over to the gate, which was nothing more than a couple planks of wood set on hinges and fixed with two metal handles, between which hung a chain and lock. Pushing on the wooden gate, the Doctor managed to make just enough room for her to fit her hand through, and even then the wood scraped against her skin.

If she'd been just a little bit bigger, she would never have been able to fit; and if she hadn't been wearing hairpins, she would have had nothing to pick the locks. For the first time since her rocky regeneration she truly appreciated her small size. The lock opened with a satisfying click, and the Doctor smiled. She carefully pulled the chains free, setting them quietly on the ground inside the cage. Then, cautiously, she peered outside her cell, barely sticking her head out and looking both ways, just to be sure. There were spaces between the planks that you could sort of see through, but in these situations she found it was usually better to be safe than sorry.

When she was satisfied that no one was there, she stepped outside and carefully crept along the hallway, caught between a makeshift wall of wooden planks and a real wall with windows set high above her, nearer to the ceiling. She continued down the hall, keeping close to the planks so she would be more difficult to spot by anyone looking down from the metal walkways suspended across the warehouse.

She reached one end of the building and found a door; cautiously she pushed on it, trying to budge the handle. It wouldn't move, the door was locked shut, from the looks of it, maybe even sealed. She tried the hairpins, just in case, but the door didn't budge. The only way in or out of the building would be from the second floor, across the incredibly visible walkways. Just across from her, at the other corner of the room, there was a metal staircase which she figured would be her best bet, and so she slowly started creeping towards it.

As she arrived at the base of the metal stairs she heard raised voices, and quickly ducked beneath the staircase, crouching under the steps.

"We have to stop now, before it's too late!" Dax pleaded. The Doctor hadn't heard their conversation until that point, but she could guess how it went.

"It's already too late," the other speaker replied, it was Timothy.

There was a distant sound, like a freak storm flinging raindrops against a hollow shed. Then the door opened, a rectangle of light seeping through the metal grating above the Doctor's head. Footsteps clanged across the walkway, moving towards the opposite end of the building. Another door opened and shut, accompanied by the wet smell of sea water and the crispness of nighttime air.

The Doctor hurried up the stairs, torn between the need for urgency and silence, a sinking feeling growing in her stomach.

She reached the room, the door still ajar, the lamplight still peacefully spilling out into the walkway. She peered inside, never leaving the shadows. Jermaine Dax lay unconscious on the floor, blood splattered across the room and still gushing from the multiple holes in his chest. The Doctor raced forward, did a preliminary examination, and noted his thready pulse and sluggish pupils. She wasn't sure if she could save him, but she would try.

She scavenged whatever materials she could and did her best to save the man, all the while ignoring the pang of guilt stinging inside her chest. There was a bottle of moonshine on the table, which she used to sterilize the wounds. Then she tore strips out of the curtains, leaving just enough to block the light and not draw attention. She tried not to think about the people who had died because of her, all those she had ever failed to save. And as her hands steadily cut and bandaged and applied pressure, she especially tried to ignore the doubts and inferiority carefully bottled up over countless years.

She had thought this time would be different. A new regeneration meant a new life, a blank slate; a different body, a different personality, and this time she had regenerated without a single memory. She still didn't have all her memories back. She was supposed to be a better person this time, someone kinder and more capable. This time was supposed to be different. And yet, in no time at all, things had ended up exactly the same.


	8. 3 Warehouses

The group stood outside the warehouses, there were three of them, lined up in a tidy row, surrounded by a sea of similar warehouses. But these were unique- Siv explained that all three had been placed under a powerful psychological glamour, or as Clara called it- a perception filter.

"Hmm, I suspected something like this might happen," Holmes said, gazing thoughtfully at the buildings.

"You thought there might be more than one?" Clara asked.

"Yes, no one would just accidentally lock up someone in a crate made out of one of the most prized woods in the galaxy," Holmes explained. "No, the material had to be already at hand, and in such quantities that it could be easily utilized and not missed."

"But then, what does that mean?" Peter asked.

"Yeah, what do they want with a bunch of fancy dead trees?" Lydia asked.

"Oborose trees," Watson added, thoughtful.

"Alright. Fancy, dead, psychic trees," Clara cut in, impatient. "Now that we've established what they've got, can we worry about saving the Doctor? I think that's a bit more important."

"Yes," Holmes agreed. "Clara is quite right. We can worry about their plans later. We have more urgent matters at hand."

"Yeah, priorities and all," Gage added. "So what's the plan?"

"Time may be of the essence," Holmes said. "Therefore, we should break up into teams of two and search each warehouse. Watson and I will take the first; Peter and Lydia, the second; and Gage and Siv will search the third."

"What about me?" Clara asked. "I'm going with you." She cut in.

"Clara, we need someone to stand watch outside," Holmes answered.

"No, but the Doctor's in there," she said, her voice rising. Then, with visible effort, she calmed down and continued. "I want to go in. Watson or the others can stand guard as well as I can."

"No, you're a better shot than most. Second only to Watson, and he can't go chasing after criminals," Holmes explained.

"Holmes is right- there is an equal probability of her being in any one of those warehouses. If you go in with us and it's the wrong one, you'll only hurt our chances of getting out safely." Watson added.

Holmes looked at Watson, nodded, and continued: "Please Clara, I know you want to save your friend, but this is the best way." He said, pulling out a spare revolver and offering it to her.

Grudgingly, she took the sidearm. "Fine, but if she's hurt, I swear I'll…"

Holmes raised an eyebrow at her, giving her a bemused look. "Glare at me indignantly?"

"I'll shoot you," Clara said. "… And glare at you indignantly."

Clara smiled, and Holmes's lips twitched upward in his own version of a smile. Then, the matter settled, the group broke up into their pairings.

"Be careful," Watson added. "Our enemy is dangerous and cannot be underestimated."

The group nodded, and then left towards their respective warehouse.

**

As they approached the warehouse, Watson noticed the excitement in Holmes' eyes. It always seemed to appear near the conclusion of every case, no matter how dangerous or morbid. At first he had thought it was the thrill of danger, but then he began to suspect it was simple glee at solving a mystery and seeing all the pieces laid bare.

They studied the locked door in front of them.

"It's been bolted shut," Watson remarked. "There's no getting in this way."

Holmes gave Watson a amused look, finally saying: "Oh Watson, what would I do without you around to state the obvious."

Watson looked away, flustered. He remembered a similar occurrence years ago, and the exact same words from Holmes. Back then he had been in awe of the detective, and every admonishment from Holmes had made him feel that much more dimwitted. Now, he was just equally amused, and the embarrassment was short lived.

"They appear to have a stairway to the second floor," Watson remarked. "We may be able to get in from there."

Holmes nodded, the corner of his lip twitching upward in that same smile. "Well then Watson, it looks like the game is afoot."

**

When Peter and Lydia arrived outside the second warehouse, they found the door unlocked.

"Well that's… lucky," Peter whispered. "Especially since I don't know how to pick locks."

"Maybe you can't but I can," Lydia replied. "And I'm telling you, it's suspicious. Like they're waiting for us, welcoming us in, just so we can walk straight into their trap."

"Oh come on that's being a bit paran…" Peter began, "Actually, yeah, that makes sense. The Doctor's bait and we're totally walking into a trap..."

"We can't know for sure," Lydia said. "But we should be careful, extra careful."

"Yeah," Peter said, trying to swallow down the panic rising in his throat. "Okay, then, on the count of three we open the door."

"One… two… three…" He took a deep breath and walked inside. It wasn't nearly as horror movie-ish as he'd been expecting.

He had been expecting blood and dead bodies and someone to jump out at him with a weapon. Instead he found a large, partly empty room, mostly stacked with crates. And there, in the very center of the room, stood a large… thing. Whatever it was, it had been covered by an enormous sheet, left an odd-shaped silhouette, and took up a good portion of the warehouse. It didn't seem too sinister...

"Well that was… anticlimactic," Peter commented.

"Yeah… not that I'm complainin or nothin," Lydia whispered, her voice was harsh and an bit of an older, buried accent had started to show through.

"We should… look around? Right?" Peter asked. "Or should we just leave? I don't think the Doctor's in here. And that's what we came here for, right?"

"I don't know," Lydia replied. "This is my first rescue. But that thing in the middle of the room is awfully suspicious. For all we know, the Doctor could be under there. We may have to check it out, and the crates too."

"I was afraid you'd say that," Peter said, his shoulders sagging in resignation. "Well then, let's see what's under curtain number 1." When he looked over and saw Lydia's puzzled expression, he elaborated. "It's an old reference to a game… show… thing… you probably don't get it, do you?"

"No. Now can we just take a look and get outta here?" Lydia said. "This place is givin me the creeps."

"Yeah. Good plan. Good plan…" Peter said. "Let's get this over with." He muttered.

Together they went to the nearest create and pried it open.

"It's empty," Peter commented.

"Yeah, and Holmes was all worried about what they were putting in the crates," Lydia added, "I guess that's one mystery solved."

"But what do they want with empty crates?" Peter wondered. "Or are they just planning on filling them later? Maybe what's under that sheet will be the answer."

Lydia nodded at him and the two of them made their way around the maze of crates towards the mysterious, covered object sitting in the center of the room.

**

Gage and Siv stood outside the third warehouse, having circled it once already, and were trying to decide how to approach the problem.

"I think we should split up," Siv suggested.

"Split up?" Gage said. "But that's, like, a bad idea. A really bad idea."

"Why?"

"Because, you know, in the movies whenever a group splits up it just makes them easier for the monster to pick off one by one."

"That's silly," Siv replied. "This is just a practical solution: there are two exits, so this way we cover them both and prevent our quarry from escaping."

"I guess…" Gage replied, still uncertain. He would never admit that the reason for his reticence was fear- he had seen what these Rippers were capable of and he wasn't confident that he could stop any one of them.

"Okay, then I will go in through the far door," Siv said. "You enter through this one."

Gage nodded, and Siv walked away, her back was straight with confidence and her stride was even and unafraid. Gage felt certain that if he were a telepathic badass, he would be much the same. With that thought in mind, he cautiously opened the door, wondering what awaited him:

A messy room filled with enormous metal vats, a variety of boxes and crates, and stacks of glass. Wooden planks were set up like walls, creating corridors and rooms. Above him was a metal walkway, suspended by chains. Below him, the floor was littered with large wooden splinters and jagged shards of glass. He made a mental note to tread carefully.

He looked around, sighed, and then walked along the room in search of clues. All the while his nerves were on end, expecting an ambush that never came. When he'd looked over every crate and vat, he decided to continue deeper into the warehouse.

**

The Doctor heard an outside door open and close, followed by the soft clatter of footsteps on metal grating. She looked down at her unconscious patient and briefly considered her options. At this point, whether he lived or died depended entirely on how fast he could get proper medical attention. She stood up and hid herself behind the open door, positioned to ambush whoever entered.

She heard the footsteps slowly approaching the room. She tried to breathe as lightly as possible, to make no noise, and all the while the footsteps drew nearer. Finally the footsteps were outside the room, the person paused for a moment and then entered. The Doctor slammed the door on the trespasser with all her might, knocking them off balance. She saw the gun held in one hand and quickly kicked out, catching the wrist and knocking the gun from the man's hand, it fell to the floor, not going off. And then a second person stepped into the room. The Doctor turned and drew her fist back, prepared to pummel him (or her), but stopped when she saw who it was.

"Sherlock Holmes," the Doctor stated, both surprised and relieved. "That must mean…" she turned to the other person, who she had hit with the door and then promptly kicked- he was huddled against the wall, holding his wrist with one hand and his nose with the other. "… John Watson… sorry about that. Thought you were a psychotic killer. Hope you understand."

He mumbled something the Doctor thought might have been: "You're crazy! You've broken my nose! … Agh! My wrist!" either that or: "Yes, of course I understand. It was a perfectly reasonable mistake. Anyone could have made it, really." She thought it was likely the former.

"Sorry," the Doctor apologized again, handing over a strip of unused cloth to Watson, who blindly took it and pressed it to his nose, trying to staunch the flow of blood.

"Impressive," Holmes commented. Then he turned his attention to the other man, who had been lying on the floor, covered in bandages and completely unmoving, this entire time. "Jermaine Dax, I presume?"

The Doctor nodded, noting a distinct smugness in Holmes's bearing. She explained: "He decided he wanted out but the other Ripper didn't accept his resignation."

"Nasty wounds, will he live?" Holmes asked.

"Unless we can get him treatment, soon, then no," the Doctor replied.

Watson, ever the physician, quickly recovered from his own pain to tend to the pain of another- still holding his own bloody nose, he walked over to the prone man and examined his injuries.

"She's right," Watson confirmed. "We need to get him out of here."

"You're not going anywhere," a soft voice said from the doorway, followed by the *click* of a gun being cocked.


	9. A Blood Red Rose

"Please, put down the gun, Mrs. Hudson," Holmes said. "You don't want to shoot us."

"That's where you're wrong, Mr. Holmes," she replied, her voice cold with anger. "You killed my husband. It would bring me no greater satisfaction than to see you dead."

"Then why haven't you killed me already?" Holmes asked. "I'm certain you could have found an opportunity. Knifed me in my sleep, or put poison in my tea, and I'd never have been the wiser."

"I confess, I could never do it. It took me some time to gather up the nerve, but whenever I did you would go away on a case, or be in one of your moods where you'd spend days without rest," she explained. "But now, I have you. Just as they promised me."

"So you are working with the Rippers," the Doctor said. "What kind of deal did you make with them?"

"I just agreed to follow you around, and when you finally found this place I was to keep you here until you could be sacrificed."

"Sacrificed?"

Mrs. Hudson nodded, "He said that the wood needs blood, or else it will die. It sounded like nonsense to me, so I don't know it what it means, nor do I care."

"The wood…?!" Holmes said, his expression changed from brief confusion to sudden realization.

"Holmes, what is she talking about?" Watson asked.

"The Oborose wood. I surmised that they had more of it. It doesn't need blood, it's already dead, except…" Holmes said, his voice trailing away.

"Oborose wood, but if you did that, you could create a weapon!" the Doctor said, understanding what Holmes had figured out.

"I don't understand, it's just wood," Watson said.

"No, it's a wood known for its psychic properties," Holmes said. "When the trees are cut down, the wood becomes susceptible to impressions. It can absorb emotions, then store and release them."

"So, you're saying that if they 'fed' this wood enough misery and pain, they could later use it as a weapon?" Watson asked, not quite sure how that could even be possible.

"Yes," the Doctor replied. "A psychological weapon that could destroy the morale of the masses. If they used it right, the war would already be half won."

"But who are they? Why would they want to go to war with us?" Watson asked.

"I suspect it has something to do with our most recent conflict…" Holmes said.

"I think I know why and who," the Doctor said, her expression solemn. "It's the Oborosans. For them, the war never ended."

"Oborosans, but they're savages," Watson replied. "They were living in mud huts and didn't even know how to use the trees for fire or crafting."

"It's not that they didn't know how, but that they couldn't," the Doctor said, she took a deep breath. "You see, there's more than one species that lives on Oboro."

They looked at the Doctor curiously; even Mrs. Hudson was paying rapt attention.

"You could call them Oborosians, they're the protectors of the planet. To them everything is sacred, every last pebble… but especially the trees, they worship those trees. And it doesn't help matters that they're one of the most powerfully telepathic species this universe has ever, or will ever know."

"But if there was something like that on Oboro, we would have noticed it," Watson reasoned.

"No, you wouldn't have known what you were seeing. They don't look at all human, or alive," the Doctor explained. "They look like small clouds of gas floating in-between the trees, but they're sentient. They're a super efficient mass that absorbs energy and uses every last ounce. They communicate but not in a way a human would understand…" her expression shifted, suddenly her thoughts were far away. "It explains so much… I've even met one: one of the Rippers is an Oborosian. It possessed the body of a child so that it could communicate with us and carry out its schemes. That's why he was so powerful but seemed so sickly, because the body had already died…"

"So, that's our ringleader. Troublesome indeed," Holmes said. "Mrs. Hudson, won't you put your weapon down? Can't you see you're being manipulated? This creature has you under its influence."

Mrs. Hudson faltered, a noticeable trembling started in her hands, and her inner conflict was outwardly obvious. Then her nerves steeled and she brought the gun back up, steadily aimed at Holmes's heart.

The Doctor glanced to the side, a small gasp of surprise escaping her lips as she looked into the hallway. Mrs. Hudson half turned automatically, expecting the sickly ghost of a child to be standing just behind her, the mythical Oborosian with his immense power ready to manipulate and kill with the flick of a wrist. Instead she saw an empty hallway.

Before Mrs. Hudson could react, a hand had grasped her wrist and twisted the gun out of her hands. She glared at Holmes and the Doctor, cursing herself for falling for such a simple trick. Holmes quickly used her own jacket to tie her up.

"Watson, if you could get that fellow to the hospital, the Doctor and I have to stop this creature before he hurts anyone else," Holmes instructed. Watson opened his mouth to object, but one look at the unconscious man and he could see the sense behind it.

"Now Mrs. Hudson, tell me, how did you get past Clara?" Holmes asked.

"Clara?" she replied. "I didn't see her." She looked turned away, still defiant.

The Doctor looked at Holmes, both of their expressions were unsettled. "We should go. Something may have happened," she said. Holmes nodded. And the two of them quickly left, leaving Watson to tend to Jermaine Dax, and Mrs. Hudson to stay tied up for the time being.

**

Clara stood outside, dutifully guarding the perimeter. She walked around, alert for danger, but a part of her couldn't stop worrying about the doctor and everyone else. This walking around, waiting, it made her feel useless. She wanted to charge inside, find the Rippers, and beat them to a pulp. Back in her own universe she had watched her Doctor die and her world end; just the thought of that happening again made it difficult to breathe.

A part of her knew this was for the best, that standing guard would help protect her friends more than recklessly charging in would, but she was still agitated and restless. She sighed and continued walking. A scream echoed through the night. It was coming from one of the warehouses. Clara drew her gun and ran towards the sound.

**

Gage meandered through the hallways, going from one empty room to another. He was mindful where he stepped, occasionally there were shards of glass and splinters of wood that could be dangerous if he wasn't careful. So far he'd found nothing, so sign of the Doctor, no hints at evil plots, and nothing dangerous beyond maintenance hazards. He was even growing a bit bored.

He thought about turning back, because surely there couldn't be this much nothing if there was anything to find. And that's when he noticed it- the branching paths behind him. He didn't know which way to go; which way he'd came from. Only then did he realize that he'd walked into a labyrinth.

"Aww man," he groaned, looking down both paths and trying to find some clue of where he'd been. There was nothing.

"Well, looks like I'm going forward," he muttered to himself and continued walking.

He passed an open door and stopped in his tracks, the room was nothing like what he's seen so far: plush red carpet, fine wood tables, elegant tapestries and paintings, some plush chairs, lamps, and even an old-fashioned music player. Soft music drifted out of the room- a wordless symphony filled with lilting violins and gentle pianos. He peered into the room, looking for some sign of a trap. Seeing nothing, he slowly walked inside.

On one of the tables a tray of small cakes and steaming tea cups was set; two notes were placed beside the items reading "Eat Me" and "Drink Me", respectively. He chuckled, feeling very much like he'd wandered down the rabbit hole.

"I'm glad you appreciate my sense of humor," a woman said, stepping into the room, Gage spun around. "I do hate it when people don't get my jokes," she said, smiling a Cheshire cat smile and pulling back on her chainsaw, making it growl to life. "I'm the Lady Rose, by the way."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Gage said, putting his hands up in a placating gesture. "Can't we talk about this first? You just said you were glad I appreciated your humor."

"Yes, and isn't disembowelment just a gag!" she laughed.

"No. Just no." he said.

"Aw, and here I thought you'd be fun to play with," she said, pouting. "Oh well, I guess I'll just have to settle for painting the walls. Red's a lovely color, don't you think?"

"I prefer more of nice, safe, green myself," Gage said, slowly backing away. His legs bumping into the table behind him. He was trapped, there were no other doors. He thought about using the furniture, but the moment he tried, he found that it had all been bolted to the floor.

He looked up and saw the woman standing two feet from him. He ducked just in time, the chainsaw roared overhead, cutting into the wall above him. He jumped out of the way. How had she moved so quickly? He hadn't even seen her move, or heard her, for that matter.

"Ooh, you're quick!" she said, pulling the chainsaw out of the wall.

Gage saw an opening and dashed for the door. He made it just in time. He ran into the hallway and made a mad dash, blindly racing through the halls, trying to find the exit. The Lady Rose was just behind him at every step. If he slowed down even a bit he'd be cut to ribbons.

He really hoped that Siv was doing better than him. And that maybe she could swing by and save him from this chainsaw wielding psychopath.

**

Siv cautiously entered the warehouse, she was at the farthest fringes of the powerful telepathic field that seemed to be interfering with her own abilities. She wondered what sort of monster could be creating this, or if their abilities were being augmented by something.

She wasn't taking any chances- even if someone was in danger, she figured that she wouldn't be of any help to them if she were dead. So she crept along the empty hallways that all seemed to lead nowhere. So far she hadn't passed a single room. It was as though she had stepped into a maze. But she knew there had to be something- an end, a goal, a purpose, and she was resolved to find it.

She peered around the corner, looking for possible sources of danger. There, down the hall, was a dead end, and in front of the blank wall four dogs lounged. Two seemed to be peacefully asleep, the third was gnawing on a bone, and the fourth was pawing at the ground, apparently trying to dig through the solid cement.

The hounds paused, just for a moment, and Siv knew they'd caught her scent. She didn't pause to do anything clever, or even to scream. She turned on her heel and ran.

**

Gage found himself trapped in a large room filled with enormous metal vats and exposed piping. He had ducked inside because he'd had no other choice, having come up on a dead end.

The Psycho Lady Rose had chased him inside, still swinging around her chainsaw like a drum-majorette's baton. She was wicked fast and didn't seem to tire, whereas Gage was already fatigued. He felt like he was being chased by the grim reaper, and the end was growing ever closer.

He knew he had to do something- he just couldn't keep running forever, or even for very much longer. In a last ditch effort, he threw himself up a ladder, climbing on top of a vat. He figured that she wouldn't be able to follow, not with a chainsaw anyway.

He looked over the edge, and that's when he realized his mistake. Lady Rose had somehow managed to climb onto the vat, and as he looked over she lunged at him. He jumped out of the way, the tip of the chainsaw grazing his arm; he ended up awkwardly unbalanced on the very edge of the vat, his arms swinging around in an effort to regain his footing.

She lunged at him again, and he threw himself forward, over the vat and towards the opposite side. His hands just managed to grab onto the ledge before he could fall into the deep vat, and end up with no way out. He looked over, trying to find Rose, he just caught a glimpse of her as she disappeared over the edge, a terrified scream splitting through the air, followed by a heavy thump and the clanking of metal.

Gage pulled himself up, barely managing with his injured arm. He sat on the vat's edge, in shock, his breathing coming out in ragged gasps. After a moment he forced himself to take a deep breath and stand up. Unsteady on his feet, he slowly made his way to the ladder, climbing down with even more care.

He found the Lady Rose on the floor, her chest impaled by a piece of metal piping. She turned to him as he approached.

"Such a lovely shade of red…" she gasped. "Isn't it beautiful?"

"Yes, it is," Gage said, kneeling beside her. He couldn't explain the sudden surge of sympathy, he knew he had every right to hate her, she had been trying to kill him after all, but he couldn't help but pity her.

"Everything's so ugly… I just wanted… be beautiful," she whispered. Her head lolled to the side, her eyes staring emptily into space.

"Rest in peace," Gage whispered, standing up, still clutching his wounded arm. He made his way to the door, hoping he could find the exit, and possibly also run into Siv or the Doctor along the way.

But as he walked the empty halls, he couldn't stop the trembling that had started deep in his bones. Even as the adrenaline wore off and the pain and fatigue came, he still felt his very soul shake, as though struggling under a heavy burden.


	10. Doubt

Siv swung the pipe at the mechanical hounds, landing a heavy blow with a satisfying *crunch*. It made for a surprisingly effective bludgeoning weapon. She absently made a note for future reference before sidestepping a powerful leap… or trying to anyway- her injured leg gave out mid-step and sent her sprawling on the ground. Metal beasts they may be, but they were surely vicious; the deep bite wound was a testament of that.

It was sheer luck that the creature overshot her, clearly not having expected her to drop so suddenly either. It was luckier still that the single remaining beast seemed to have expended the last of its energy with that maneuver: it landed heavily, stumbled, jittered in a way only something entirely unnatural can, and then went still.

Siv breathed a sigh of relief, her head spun from blood loss and she wasn't confident that she could stand for any breadth of time. The near miss stung. She had clearly become overly reliant on her psychic abilities and promised to exercise more in the future… the thought drew out a soft, bitter laugh. How many times had she encountered that same sentiment in the minds of the humans she'd met? The answer: very often. The difference was, she planned to keep this resolution.

**

No, she would not be so weak again.

When Gage finally, finally, found his way out of the warehouse, he nearly had a heart attack. Siv was leaning against a mound of rubble, applying pressure to her leg; her tattered skirt valiantly trying to staunch the bleeding. The corpses (?) of three mechanical dogs… [really? dogs? Psycho lady really was psycho] were scattered around in a gruesome trail of metal bits and fur, and a fourth seemed to have given up the ghost- it stood frozen in place and seemed to be… smoking? That couldn't be good.

Gage raced over to Siv, hoping beyond hope that mecha mutt #4 didn't explode, and tried to ask what happened… It didn't turn out well.

"What? But—Dogs! Dogs! They're metal! Why're they metal!? Holy shit did you just smash metal mutts with a lead pipe! Oh my god you're bleeding! What do I do? Please don't die!"

"I'm… flattered by your concern," Siv said, grimacing as her hand slipped and blood started flowing freely once more. "But if you could help me apply pressure to this, it would be much appreciated."

Gage nodded dumbly and held his hands against the injury. Siv grimaced again, and Gage had to force himself to *breathe* and *not panic*. He was really, really not used to this level of crazy. He didn't even think he'd seen so much blood before! He'd certainly never had to run away from a chainsaw wielding psycho before. Honestly, it was all a bit much.

Siv looked to the sky for mercy. Honestly, humans were so melodramatic.

**

An ear piercing scream broke through the nighttime stillness.

It was followed shortly thereafter by a deep, reverberant thrum.

Everywhere people dropped in agony. Sleepers were jolted awake. Drunks dropped like flies. And children screamed in terror, as their very minds were invaded with the same, singular message:

_[Pain-Anger-Sorrow]_

_*You invaded our home. **Unwelcome. Unclean.** You destroyed our sacred spaces. **Defilers.** You took what was not yours. **Thieves.** You bled our world dry, so that only you would prosper. **Parasites. Selfish. Unworthy.** *_

_*Now we will have our… * ***Revenge*** *_

_[Revenge-Revenge- **Revenge** ]_

**

Siv screamed once before blacking out, blood dripping from her nose.

Gage felt like the world was ending, like **his** world was ending. It was death and destruction and loss so profound he couldn't even begin to comprehend it. It was grief and rage the likes of which he'd never felt before and hadn't thought were even possible. And more than that it **hurt**. His whole head felt like it would implode and every nerve tingled at attention. He felt blood drip down his nose and tasted the bitter tang of iron.

He was so, so tempted to join Siv in the land of unconsciousness, but no, if he did that she might just die of blood loss. So, with a strength he really didn't know he had, he gritted his teeth and pressed down on the wound, and hoped, desperately, that the Doctor could stop whatever the hell was causing the apocalypse.

**

Holmes grimaced and staggered, his hand futilely holding his head, as though it could prevent his grey matter from leaking out. Beside him, the Doctor dropped to the ground with a strangled shout, pressing both hands to the sides of her head and her mouth opened in silent screams.

**

The scream had been a lie, a trap, a lure to draw her in. And she'd fallen for it, hook, line, and sinker. Of course it could knock someone out without so much as a single whimper. Of course the creepy telepathic alien could make her think she'd heard a scream. Stupid Clara, Stupid. And now it was inside her head…

It wanted her as its host, but it bloody well **could not have her.**

"Doctor!" Clara screamed, hoping that she could somehow hear her, knowing it wasn't very likely.

It slithered in her mind, past her defenses, deftly finding her weakest, most hidden places. Slowly it sunk in its claws.

"DOCTOR!"

**

_Doctor!_

The Doctor was curled up on the ground, desperately clinging to consciousness. The screams in her head were deafening. The pain was unbearable. But the worst of it was the grief. It could fill impossible oceans, drown worlds, strangle the strongest of minds, and shatter the hardest of hearts.

…It was familiar.

She remembered feeling like this at the end of The Time War, when she thought that she'd decided to end things once and for all, to end Gallifrey and the Time Lords, and had walked away the last of her kind.

_Doctor!_

There it was again… a voice in her head. It sounded familiar… Clara!

She jolted fully back to consciousness and managed to sit up. Blood dripped down her chin and spotted the ground beneath her. She shook her head to clear it, and immediately realized just how bad an idea that was. Her head fairly screamed in protest. The pain wasn't gone, no, the psychic attack continued, but she could manage it… for now.

A groan from beside her caught her attention- Holmes was similarly struggling to push his way past the attack, and to her immense surprise, he seemed to be succeeding. She couldn't help the smile that made its way onto her face. Humans really were something special.

"You alright there Holmes?" she asked, gently; her voice oddly distant from the ringing in her ears.

"I'll live," he replied with a grimace, turning to study the Doctor with his rapidly sharpening gaze.

"Good. Let's go," she said, pushing herself to her feet with a determined wobble and grimace that mirrored his own. She dully noted that he didn't seem to be bleeding from any of his orifices, and thought that that was vastly unfair.

**

Every step was agony. Every breath- fire. And every movement towards to the warehouse just made it exponentially worse.

Holmes knew, logically, that they had to get inside and stop this before lives were lost, but the sheer improbability of it loomed ever closer with every worsening spike of pain. Even the stalwart Doctor struggled behind him. And he truly wasn't sure they would succeed.

Holmes, illogically, wished that it was **his** doctor struggling beside him. It was always moments like these that made him grateful for the ever faithful Watson. Now he just had to hope that this Doctor would be as steadfast as his own.

**

They managed to stagger into the warehouse, only nearly breaking their necks once when they tripped over a nearly invisible length of chain that had snarled and been left to corrode on the floor. They were met with a scene of carnage. Three bodies lay on the ground, two were large and cloaked and lying in pools of blood, the third was small, skin grey and obviously long dead. Bullet wounds were clearly visible. Then, just behind the bodies, was the machine. It was a massive construction of metal, rings whirling and humming, spinning faster and faster in their enormous frame. Just visible inside the contraption were Lydia and Peter, chained to each other and to a short ring set in the ground; their eyes alight with terror. The Doctor followed their line of sight and felt her hearts freeze in her chest. There, suspended above the ground, was Clara, held in the clutches of the monstrous Oborosi: a giant malevolent cloud, exuding dark, foreboding energy, crackling with electricity that jumped and sparked across the metal machine behind it. Dark, amorphous strands curled around Clara, holding her aloft, while others forced their way into her mouth, nose, ears…

_Will Clara be my Clara when this is over…_

She shook away the terrifying (unworthy) thought, increasingly difficult to do through the muddled haze of pain.

Theoretically, telepathic beings were more receptive to psychic intrusion. Also theoretically – they should be able to raise stronger defenses and ultimately fare better than their non-telepathic counterparts. Unfortunately, The Oborosi were at the top of the telepathic food chain, and Time Lords were at the bottom. There was no way the Doctor could keep out an assault at this level, but that didn't mean she wouldn't try. Still, every step closer to the maelstrom made her thoughts run like molasses, and she found her mind slipping further and further away…

_Doctor! Help me!_

_Clara!_ The Doctor shuddered with the force of the thought, breaching the surface of her awareness like a dolphin in the ocean. She turned to Holmes, a few steps ahead, and saw him staring at the scene with empty, glassy eyes, not truly seeing. She took a shaky step forward, and then another.

"Holmes," she said, nudging his arm.

He didn't respond.

"Holmes!" she hissed, pushing his shoulder again with more force.

Again he didn't respond.

"Holmes!" she shook him so hard that his teeth must've rattled, but he remained unresponsive.

She looked back towards the scene, and by now her entire body was trembling with the strength it took to remain upright. She couldn't get any closer. Not if she wanted to remain conscious.

She studied the scene, willing her mind to move faster. It still felt like it took an eternity to arrive at every thought… but there was one… that just might work.

The Doctor gritted her teeth and pulled Holmes back by his collar. He stumbled; nearly fell, but she steadied him. He blinked furiously, tossing his head like a dog trying to clear off water, and turned to the Doctor with a more focused gaze.

"I have a plan," she said, and that sure got his attention. "But I'll need your help."

**

In the end, the Doctor's plan was almost embarrassingly straightforward. It required neither subterfuge nor subtlety. And, to the Doctor's remorse, it didn't involve even an attempt at peaceful negotiations. She knew they were long past that point.

Instead, the plan involved copious amounts of electricity, Oborosian wood, a length of chain, and a feedback loop.

Working together, they had managed to untangle a cumbersome length of chain in record time. The Doctor had then spent a moment breaking a crate made of Oborosian wood (so that was how they smuggled everything here- clever!) and then securing one end of the chain to a hefty wooden slat, while Holmes had gotten as close to the whirling machine as he'd dared and tossed a loop of chain over a more delicate looking, likely electrical component (well, at least they hoped it was an electrical component).

No more than ten seconds had passed, but already Lydia and Peter were looking worse for wear, as though their lives were being drained right before their eyes, and Clara's visible struggles were noticeably waning. The Doctor knew that they had to act fast; knew, even, that if the Oborosi wasn't so set on possessing Clara, on enacting its revenge to the fullest; knew that if Clara wasn't fighting so hard and maintaining its attention, that surely the being would have noticed them by now and thoroughly derailed their plans.

But still, the final, crucial step was in her hands (literally!), and she… doubted.

She was the only one who could possibly get close enough to the Oborosi, that much was already clear. But she wasn't confident that she could throw the spear with enough force to reach it, much less throw it hard enough to make it stick. She couldn't help remembering the paralysis that came with being so close to the raging storm cloud of a being; she couldn't help thinking of her mind, like a sieve, forgetting everything important. She couldn't help but stare at her thin arms, everything about her so much smaller than she ever remembered being before, everything so much… less. And really, she couldn't help but doubt.

But then she remembered being young, now, looking back, so incredibly young, in an older and frailer body than this, carried only by sheer arrogance and an altogether unhealthy amount of grumpiness. And she remembered Susan, her granddaughter, who had been so intrepid and clever and kind. Not to mention Romana, more precocious than she ever was. And Leela, stronger and braver than the Doctor could ever hope to be. And yes, now that she thinks back on it, she does remember being small and silly; of being, at times, goofy, and sly, and ruthless.

So really, what does it matter if she's smaller than ever? If her mind is more sieve than sponge and every part of her is still recovering from her trickiest regeneration yet. With a glance back at Holmes, his face set in determination; at Lydia and Peter, and even Clara, so afraid, and yet still (still!) defiant. She knew that she'd do what she'd always done before- be the Doctor.

And so she took a step forward, and then another, and then another.

She walked until rage and horror seeped into her ribcage, and then she kept on walking, until the screams drowned out even the beating of her hearts and the pressure in her head was like snakes, swimming in her skull. Then, finally, she stopped, gripping the piece of wood in her hand so hard she bled; the wood itself resonated with horrors long past and lending itself to the cacophony of *pain* swimming in the air. She drew her arm back, focusing on one, small point in the frothing mass above her, slightly darker than the rest and wreathed in a crackling halo of sparks. And then she threw the spear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These last two chapters ended up being written 5-ish years after the original story. Mostly because I couldn't stand having an unfinished story floating around.  
> I honestly forgot where I was going with this, as my computer died, taking several chapters, revisions, and my outline with it.  
> So yeah, plot, character, consistency - what are those?


	11. The End of The World, As We Know It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A super quick ending, just so I don't leave this hanging.

When all was said and done- the spear struck true. Electricity filled the room, like lightning in a bottle, and then the sky, the ground, the entire ship, until all the illusions had been stripped bare.

Clara, the Doctor, and Holmes had all been more than a little singed, but they managed to escape without a single permanent injury (or regeneration) between them. [The Doctor was certain that Holmes had somehow been responsible for their continued survival]. Lydia and Peter had both been protected inside their cage of metal and were unscathed. Siv didn't bleed to death, thanks to Gage. Dax, however, had been beyond saving, despite Watson's valiant efforts.

Mrs. Hudson was spared from doing jail time by the legal loopholes that had come with the entire Entertainment Center system crashing (a near apocalypse tends to have that effect). The entire industry had, in fact, been dismantled, in no small part due to the long standing efforts of both Holmes and Watson, with a little help from their friends. Peter decided to stay in the future, with Lydia, and continue their advocate for the disenfranchised.

The Doctor, Clara, Siv, and Gage stepped back into the Tardis once more. They left, as the Doctor and company are wont to do, and continued on to their next, great adventure.


End file.
